


Untitled (1999)

by themunchking



Category: NCT (Band), SuperM (Korea Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Not K-Pop Idols, Child Neglect, M/M, Mark-centric, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prodigy!Mark Lee, Queen's Gambit AU (Kinda of), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28206603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themunchking/pseuds/themunchking
Summary: "To be talented is one thing. To be gifted is another. Mark Lee, only 22, has learned this the hard way. Propelled to the very tops of the art market as a tender teenager, Lee has followed in the footsteps of some of the great prodigies of the past, in more ways than one.Lee has a warm smile, a bright laugh. And for a teenager, very, very serious eyes."-Taeyong Lee forVanity Fair(A rough Queen's Gambit AU, with art instead of chess)
Relationships: Kim Jongin | Kai/Mark Lee (NCT), Mark Lee/Wong Yuk Hei | Lucas
Comments: 20
Kudos: 86





	1. The Boy (2007, charcoal on paper, 8 1/2” x 11”)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, friends! If you can believe it, this is the first time I've published an unfinished fic in chaptered form. Though don't worry, I have everything neatly planned out. 
> 
> As the summary states, this is roughly inspired by the the Netflix show The Queen's Gambit, which is about a chess prodigy. It's an amazing, beautiful show, but I know nothing about chess. What I do know something about is art, however. If you follow me on twitter, you know that I think Mark has Big Prodigy Energy, so now I'm bringing that thought to life.
> 
> Keep an eye on the tags, which are subject to change as more chapters are added. While major content warnings won't be applicable here, readers who are sensitive to topics of substance abuse may want to proceed with caution.

**The Boy (2007, charcoal on paper, 8 1/2” x 11”)**

**_From the Private Collection of Sooman Lee_ **

  


  


Wake up in Singapore. 

Wake up in Monaco to a pounding migraine and a rolling stomach, last night’s events playing back through the distorted lens of a decrepit movie theatre projector. 

Wake up in New York, in a near-empty loft in SoHo, not in the rumpled bed tucked into the corner, but on the cold, unforgiving concrete floor. 

Wake up in Sydney. In Tokyo. In Marfa, Texas. Wake up. _Wake up—_

Mark wakes up with a sharp inhale as the bus jolts over a pothole. Vancouver’s long winter is finally over, but not without leaving behind a mine-field of potholes. It seems that the 156 bus hits every single one as it trundles through Coquitlam. 

In his lap, Mark’s sketch lies forgotten, the bus drivers' worn and wrinkled face only half detailed. Fortunately, none of Mark’s charcoal rolled out of his lap while he snoozed. He glances out the window, studying the passing cityscape to try and decode out what stop they’re at. His mom—it won’t be pretty if he’s late coming home _again._

“We just crossed Austin Avenue,” a voice near him says. Mark jumps, and this time, his charcoal pencil falls out of his lap and cracks into three pieces when it hits the bus floor. 

“Jesus Mary and Joseph,” he mutters, trying to get the pieces before the momentum of the bus sends them rolling further away. If his mom were here, she’d cuff him across the ear for the blasphemy. 

“Sorry about that,” the same voice says. For the first time, Mark looks up to see who’s addressing him. It’s a woman, older than Mark but not _old._ Maybe she goes to Simon Fraser. “Hey—aren’t you a bit young to be riding the bus alone?” 

“I’m eight,” Mark says. “I’m not young.” 

The woman laughs, even though Mark wasn’t telling a joke at all, and smiles at him the same way his babysitter Stephanie Yoo does. He hates it, but—mom would pinch him and give him a big lecture if he rolled his eyes. 

“Sure,” she says. “I hope your drawing’s ok—woah.” 

In a panic, Mark looks down at his sketch, but nope. Nothing wrong. It’s just the same, half-finished drawing on discounted 80lb white paper. 

“You drew that?” The woman says. She doesn’t sound like she’s teasing Mark, now. He nods. “That’s amazing! Wow kid, you’re really good.” 

“Um. Thanks.” He wants to shrink into his body. Luckily, the intercom announces his stop next. He throws the pieces of charcoal into his backpack along with the sketch. 

“Hey wait! You’re just going to ruin it like that? It was amazing!” 

Mark flinches back from her. She talks so _loudly_. “It’s ok,” he says with the wide, innocent eyes of a young boy. “I’ve got a bunch of them at home. And I’ll do a better one tomorrow.” 

With that, he scurries down the aisle and, blissfully, out onto the street. On his walk home from the bus stop, he pauses to study Mrs. Karrigan’s new window boxes. He likes spring the best of all the seasons—the way each day, everything changes and grows. Like Monet’s haystacks, he could draw the same scene day after day, and it’d be different every time. He loves that. 

It’s not a long walk from the bus stop to Mark’s house. The neighborhood is quaint—there’s the Tim Hortons on the corner, of course, and the concrete sidewalks on either side are lined with hedges and small single-family homes, most of which are themselves only single-story. Most people around here have demure, well-kept lawns. Nothing stands out. Nothing is supposed to. 

The Lee family home stands out for what someone may describe as all the wrong reasons. The lawn, perhaps, has never been mowed. The grass grows long and tall, unsightly in this neighborhood full of people striving towards the ranks of the upper middle class and well-attended PTA meetings. The gaping mouth of the tiny concrete garage spews out any manner of certifiable _junk,_ from kitchen chairs with missing legs, to printers you can no longer buy ink for, to even artifacts of a childhood that never really was—cheap children’s toys, garish in color. 

People don’t say anything, but they always look. They walk down the sidewalk with their strollers and Goldendoodles, and from the corner of their eyes they study the Lee home. Fiona Tyler whispers to her husband, _I wonder what is happening in that home,_ with a vague sense of derision. Robbie Berkowski always takes his morning jogs on the other side of the street—it’s easier to divert his gaze that way. 

Mark is eight, and he spends a lot of time looking at the world. He sees. He may not fully understand that this way of living isn’t typical, but he knows that something is off. But when push comes to shove, the cracks in the concrete and drafty windows are all he knows. 

His key slides into the lock (and jiggles it twice, as the pesky thing requires) just as the sun is tipping down over the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the neighborhood. If he’d gotten home earlier, there would have been time to set up on the front stoop and paint. But the bus had been running late, no, _he’d_ been running late, caught up in his drawings, and hadn’t glanced at his plastic, discount-store watch before it was too late to catch the first bus. 

Like he’s barely there at all, he slides inside and closes the door softly. He toes his sneakers off and lines them up in a perfect row. His stomach is grumbling with annoyance, but it’ll be best if he can make it down the hallway, to the left, and into his room. There, at least, he’ll be able to hunt through his sketches for the day in peace for a bit. 

“Mark?” No, no such luck, of course. 

“Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee,” Mark says, louder than he needs to. He glances up to the cross above the doorway, the frail and withered body of Jesus hanging off the bronze cross. An eternal reminder of his sins. 

Sometimes he imagines what it would have been like to be a monk, way, way back. He learned at the museum that they got to spend their days drawing pictures that made their way into manuscripts that still exist today. There would be no video games, but otherwise, Mark thinks that might be kind of nice. 

Mark’s feet carry him to the living room to pay his dues. Sure enough, his mother is there, watching something on the television. She doesn’t look at him when he stands in the doorway. 

“You’re late.” She doesn’t ask where he’s been. There’s not evidence of his father anywhere—no jacket hanging by the door, no indent on the chair. Though that’s not particularly surprising. 

“I missed the bus,” Mark mumbles. He keeps his eyes cast firmly down to the floor. Even though Mother isn’t looking at him, she could at any moment, and Mark knows the rules. He’s supposed to show deference to his mother. 

“Are you going to make it a habit?” 

“No.”

“What will I do with you if you start to be late to everything?” She sighs. “What if you start being late to church.” 

“I wouldn’t,” Mark adds on quickly. “I wouldn’t, mother.” 

She’s quiet for a moment. “I know. You care about your soul, don’t you, Mark?”

“Yes, Mother.” 

“Good. Go to your room. No dinner tonight.” 

When he gets to his room, he lays down face-first into his pillow, and screams as loud as he dares. In his backpack, his sketches stay crumpled. 

  


On Sundays, after waking early to complete his chores and attend church, Mark is allowed to take several bus connections to downtown Vancouver, and the Vancouver Art Gallery. It’s free on Sundays and Wednesdays for residents of British Columbia, and Mark is a fixture on these days, so much so that he may as well become part of the exhibit. 

“Good afternoon, young man,” Mr. Abe greets. He’s an older gentleman who works the coat check, and takes Mark’s backpack for him and puts it in a special cubby. From his breast pocket he produces a maple hard candy. “Where will your pencil take you today?” 

“I dunno,” Mark grins, toothy. “Thanks for the candy.” 

The staff are always very kind to him, if not a little _too_ doting and kind. Their looks remind him of the ones he gets from the ladies at church, the same one who his mom avoids like they’re in league with the Devil Himself. But they save him his favorite easel, and sometimes even sneak him food from the museum cafe, saving him the discomfort of drawing on a painfully empty stomach. He needs to save his meager allowance for art supplies.

But they ask him a lot of questions, too, and that Mark dislikes a tremendous amount. They stopped asking where his parents were after the third week, at least directly. They try trickier questions now, like asking if he’s waiting for anyone, or where his mom works and what time she gets off the clock. 

For the most part, Mark is very good at avoiding these questions. It’s a fine line to walk, as he doesn’t want to come off as rude—if he made enemies of the staff, what if they stopped letting him in to draw? What would he do on Sunday and Wednesdays then? 

He comes here to draw the art, the old masterpieces and new delights, and sometimes when he gets back home with a stack of sketches he’ll paint them. Form, shading, perspective, all the words Mark’s learned about in library books are here on the museum walls. 

Today he’s in the Contemporary Art of Asia, his eyes pouring over the experimental photographs of Eikoh Hosoe. His photographs look like nightmares. They’re difficult to look at, but also, difficult to look away from. 

Lately, he’s been considering shadows a lot. When he wakes in the middle of the night to the front door slamming against the hallway wall, and the heavy footfalls of heavy boots inside the house, the weary steps of an aging man, he studies the depths of the shadows from under his covers. Mark’s brain conjures up things squirming and living in those narrow triangles. Those things he dares not put on paper, less it makes them come true. 

Instead, he draws the distortion of bodies captured by Hosoe’s lense. It’s good practice with his range of subjects, and because they’re all in black and white, the contrast of shades puts Mark’s charcoal to real work. And _Ordeal by Roses_ series is _dark,_ in subject and shade, both. 

Choosing which work to draw requires its own little ritual. First, Mark chooses a room. That step is easy enough. Then, he surveys the entire space by walking around it, once. Usually, more than one thing catches his eye. These pieces take root in his mind. Which ones catch his imagination the most? His curiosity? One always rises to the surface, shines the brightest, and that’s what Mark sets up his stool and easel in front of. 

After that, it’s simple to drown out the rest of the world. Even without headphones—Mark’s old pair broke, and he’s yet to find a replacement at the secondhand store—it’s not difficult to concentrate even as other visitors filter in and out of the room. In a distant sense, he knows they watch him and peer over his shoulder as if they’re birds teetering on a branch. But he pays them no mind, lost in the strokes. 

Today, the gallery is even quieter than usual. It’s a beautiful day outside, one of those early spring days that is a perfect venn-diagram of warm, sunny, and dry. Most of the city is outside enjoying themselves.

Perfect drawing weather for Mark. 

He’s finished with his first and moved onto the second when a tiny, polite cough comes from his right. Mark would have ignored it, and almost still does, but he recognizes that little huff of air as belonging to Miss Wendy, one of the curators. Mark likes her a lot. She wears bright-colored sweaters.

“Hello, Mark,” she says in her gentle voice when Mark turns his head to look at her. Just his head—his body is still mostly engrossed in his drawing, wrists itching to get back to it. Next to her stands someone Mark has never seen before, an older Asian man with square glasses and shiny shoes. 

“Hi Miss Wendy,” Mark replies, eyes still tracking the stranger. He smiles when Mark continues to stare, his eyes making tiny half-moons on his face. Mark takes a mental picture of that. It might be nice to draw, later. 

“This is Mr. Sooman,” Miss Wendy says. “He’s—”

“Your name is on the wall,” Mark blurts out, because it is. Not _this_ wall, but outside in one of the main corridors of the museum. “Um. Sorry for interrupting, Miss Wendy.” 

“It’s quite alright, dear. You’re correct, Mr. Sooman is a very generous patron of ours.” 

“What’s a... patron?” 

“A patron is someone who believes in the arts and supports them,” Mr. Sooman says, speaking for the first time. He speaks directly to Mark, and he likes that. “Ms. Shon tells me you’re quite the staple here at the museum. You come here every week, I’m told.” 

“Yeah,” Mark mumbles. Suddenly, he’s feeling quite shy. He twirls his charcoal pencil between his fingers. Mom yells at him for doing it, always says it’s annoying, but it’s a nervous habit he can’t kick. “I like coming here to draw.” 

“A very impressive thing for a young boy like yourself to enjoy,” Mr. Sooman says. He gestures to Mark’s drawing. “May I see?” 

Gradually, Mark angles the easel for Mr. Sooman and Miss Wendy to see. Miss Wendy smiles when she sees it, like she does every time Mark shows her something, but Mr. Sooman... Mark can’t tell. Whatever is going on behind his crinkly eyes is as opaque as marble. 

“It’s a very lovely interpretation,” Miss Wendy offers. 

“Thanks,” Mark whispers. His stomach feels all strange and knotted. He wishes he could ask Mr. Sooman to go away, but that would be _rude,_ so he can’t do that. Mr. Sooman is stroking his finger with his chin. After what seems like forever—and seriously, Mark knows his tense silences—Mr. Sooman pulls back. 

“Well, Wendy, you were absolutely right,” he says. “Mark, would you like to go to lunch with me?” 

“Um. I don’t have the money,” he mumbles. This makes Mr. Sooman laugh, even though Mark was kidding in the slightest. It weirds him out even further. 

“Not to worry, son. I will pay. I believe—I hope—that I’ll be paying for quite a few things.” 

Lunch is the best meal of Mark’s life. Instead of going to the museum cafe like Mark expects, Mr. Sooman takes him and Miss Wendy out to a proper place, where Mark sits in a plush, deep blue velvet chair. He’s nearly too short to sit at the table. 

The numbers on the menu make his head spin, but Mr. Sooman assures him it’s nothing to worry about. But all that runs through his mind are value deals from McDonalds, the price of toilet paper, how many bus rides he could take for the price of a sandwich. 

Eventually, he settles on a fried chicken sandwich. It’s so delicious, he becomes entirely focused on scarfing it down and he doesn’t pay any attention to keeping up a conversation with either adult at the table. Later, he’ll cringe at his own behavior. But fortunately, Miss Wendy and Mr. Sooman seem happy to let him do as he pleases. It’s... a strange feeling. 

“You're a very talented young man, did you know that, Mark?” Mr. Sooman says after Mark finishes up the last bite of his sandwich (though there are still the fries he’s eyeing). Mark’s eyes flick to Miss Wendy, trying to pick up some kind of hint on how to answer. 

“I don’t really know about that,” he says quietly. He picks at one of his fries and draws a circle on his plate with the ketchup. That’s easier to focus on than the way Mr. Sooman is studying him. 

“How long have you been coming to draw at the museum?” The man asks, undeterred. 

“Uh, six months, I think.” 

“And how long had you been drawing before that?” 

Mark shrugs. This question is easy enough to answer. “Always.” 

“Always,” Mr. Sooman repeats. “Mark, what I said earlier is not exactly true.” Mark’s heart sinks. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but here comes the downside. There’s one to every good thing, but at least Mark’s belly is full, and his cramping stomach won’t be keeping him company on the bus ride home. “You’re not just a talented young man. You’re extraordinary. Your drawings are, well, they’re remarkable not just for a boy your age, but for anyone.” 

“They’re not that good,” Mark says. Every time he shows Mom something, she never even reacts. After the first few times of bringing drawings to her with a hopeful heart, Mark stopped bothering. He’s not good at art, but he loves it, so he doesn’t need to show his work to anyone. But... he looks to Miss Wendy. “Aren’t they?” he asks her. 

“Oh, Mark,” Miss Wendy smiles. “Your modesty is one of the best things about you. Such a polite little boy. You are _very_ good, I promise you.” 

Maybe Miss Wendy and Mr. Sooman are just being nice to him. He doesn’t know how to respond, so he takes a bite of his fry and says nothing. All of his earlier appetite has vanished; trying to swallow right now is like trying to choke down an eraser. 

“I see you don’t believe me.” Mr. Sooman adjusts his glasses. “But young man, I hope you listen to me when I say you have a remarkable talent, and such a gift shouldn't be squandered. I would certainly feel regret for the rest of life if I let it go right under my nose.”

“Um, what does ‘squandered’ mean?” 

“‘To go to waste,’ dear,” Miss Wendy says. 

Mark doesn’t think going to the museum to draw whenever he can for the rest of his life is a waste of time. There’s something Mr. Sooman is getting at, but it’s only the pieces, and Mark is yet to be able to see the complete puzzle. 

“I want you to draw me something. An assignment, let’s call it,” Mr. Sooman says. “Do you know the importance of self-portraits? Artists like Rembrandt have had their immortalized periods of their lives with them. I’d like you to do one for yourself. Do you think that would be fun?” 

Mark nods. Himself—of all the subjects in the world, he’s never really considered that to be one of them. But the more he thinks about it, the more fun it sounds. And Mr. Sooman seems to really believe in him, to such an extent that Mark is skeptical; but he wouldn’t want to let him down. 

“Ok, I can do that,” he agrees. The ideas start forming in his head, collecting and floating around like little white clouds. He should spend some time daydreaming about their shape before picking up his pencil. 

“Very, very good Mark. I’ll be back in Vancouver next month after some business. Let’s see what you come up with during that time.” 

  


Mark draws twenty different versions of himself, each on the thinnest paper that will still hold his strokes without tearing. Separately, he’s satisfied with his representation. The resemblance is good, the proportions correct. But still, they’re nothing special. They’re just _drawings._ For some of them, he uses a mirror. For others, he does himself from memory. All together, though, it looks nothing like him. He can’t even recognize himself. 

That’s true in a few different ways. 

This approach is also good, because Mark has probably started and restarted this little assignment for Mr. Sooman a hundred times over. The vision in his head doesn’t want to come out, which has never been an issue before now. But now he can’t help but feel like nothing is _good_ enough, like _he’s_ not good enough, and Mr. Sooman and Miss Wendy will find out they were wrong about him all along. 

That’s where the idea to stack everything on top of each other comes from. 

The month passes in the blink of an eye. Never before has Mark had to think about deadlines and time crunches, but as the final week turns over, there just doesn’t seem like there’s enough time remaining for him to get the result he wants.

At night, his bedroom transforms into a studio. It’s a struggle to keep his eyes open, but every night he lies awake listening carefully to the sound of the television creeping in through the cracks under the door, and waits until his mother finally turns it off and her footsteps lead her to her bedroom. Only then does Mark slide off the bed and awkwardly mount his flashlight so he can work on the floor. 

One day, he dreams of having his own studio to work in. That way he could play music whenever and as loud as he wants, and wouldn’t have to work in the dark. His studio would have big, wide windows that let in so much light and overlook the city—no, the ocean! Or no, maybe a meadow. And he’ll fill it with all the things he likes. If he had a studio like that, he’d probably live in it, too. 

Mark is so preoccupied with his thoughts and the rhythm of his hand working over the paper that he doesn’t notice the door opening. 

“What’re you doin’ kiddo?” 

Mark’s head shoots up. He’s caught, he’s caught, his drawings will be crumpled—but it’s not Mother. It’s his dad. 

He looks... different from when Mark last saw him, which wasn’t all that recently. They’ve never explained to him what dad does for a living, only that he works nights. Mark doesn’t think he ever has days off. There’s a lot Mark doesn’t know about the world, but even he knows that’s a little strange. 

The sharp, pungent smell of whiskey watfs in from the doorway. He can’t make out much of his father in the doorway, but as Mark stays silent, he tilts aimlessly side to side, like a tree bowing to a strong wind. 

“I asked you a question, boy.” 

“Just drawing,” Mark says quickly. “I couldn’t sleep.” 

“What, you want uh, some milk? A warm glass of milk or whatever? Maybe a beer, that always helps me sleep.” 

“No thanks.” Mark wishes he’d keep his voice down. Mother could wake up any minute now. “I’m done drawing now anyways.” 

“That’s cool. Looks nice.” Not once does he look down as what Mark is drawing, and besides, he’d hastily covered it up when he realized he wasn’t alone. 

Another sound—Mother’s voice, heavy and slurred with sleep. Mark really scrambles to hide his drawing now, but she doesn’t come into his room, or even into view. She murmurs something to dad in Korean—a language he’s heard them use sporadically but never been taught. Whatever she says to him, it causes dad to turn away from Mark without saying another word, or any goodbye. 

Mark is relieved. As quietly as he can, he rises from his spot on the floor and creeps to the door dad left open. He wants to close the door and re-enter his safe cave, but curiosity gets the better of him; he pokes his head into the darkness of the hallway. 

Mother’s door is closed. The television is off. From here, he can’t even hear the constant hum of the refrigerator. There’s nothing but a wall of silence and the darkness of night. 

He goes back into his room. He sees Mr. Sooman in three days. 

  


“Do you think he likes it?” Mark whispers to Miss Wendy. They stand a few feet behind Mr. Sooman from where he appraises Mark’s creation. “I tried really hard.” 

Miss Wendy rests a comforting hand on his shoulder. When Mark looks up at her, he furrows his brow. He doesn’t understand. Why would she have tears in her eyes? Did he mess everything up? 

“You did _wonderful,_ Mark,” she says. “Just wonderful.” 

  


-

  


Everyone tells him it’s impressive. Everyone tells him it’s a big deal. _Your first solo exhibition at thirteen_ , they say with voices laced in awe, and often, jealousy. 

_It’s just an independent gallery,_ the nay-sayers hiss, _owned by someone with connections to the school. That’s the only reason._

Mark knows what jealousy sounds like—he’s grown up a lot in five years, and this particular emotion has played an outsized role in that time. 

Making friends is a weird thing, not that Mark was ever adept at doing that in the first place. At his old school, people mostly ignored him, dismissed him as the weirdo loner with his nose always in his sketchbook instead of memorizing the periodic table. 

Now, instead of going to school during the week and riding the bus to the museum, he takes multiple connections to an arts school in downtown Vancouver. Or, sometimes if he’s lucky, Jeno Lee’s mother will offer to drop him off at home, insisting sweetly that his house is not too much of a divergence from their home in Port Moody. 

This tone tells Mark that she would very much like her son and him to be friends. It’s enough to put a sour taste in Mark’s mouth, but fortunately for Mrs. Lee, he doesn’t have to _try_ to like her son. Unlike most of the other kids at school, Jeno is nice to him without sounding like he has ulterior motives. Sometimes people think they can get their own gallery placements if they stand close enough to Mark in the lunch line. 

Only one of them offers Mark pieces of the kimbap his mom made that morning. Only one of them asks Mark how his weekend was, or suggests that they divide-and-conquer on the math homework. And when Mark says Jeno’s name like J _eh_ no instead of J _ee_ no like all the other kids do, the boy’s face crumples into the sweetest smile. 

Jeno is a friend—and Mark’s never had a friend before, not a real one that wasn’t due to circumstance like at a church gathering. Do all friendships feel this way? And _this_ being an emotion Mark doesn’t know how to place. 

Jeno is a friend, but Mark also catches himself staring at the other boy for a long time, beyond the point of awkwardness, until Mark snaps out of it and realizes Jeno is staring at him expectantly from across the art room table, waiting for his response on something. But Mark can’t respond, because he was too preoccupied studying the curve of Jeno’s nose in the cold morning light of 1st period. 

Jeno is a friend. Does everyone want to kiss their friends? Mark doesn’t have any others to ask. 

The people at church say kissing boys is a sin. _Jesus_ never kissed boys, but maybe he would have liked it if he did. 

Although he knows Mrs. Lee sees him as a means to an end for her son, Jeno hasn’t received that same memo. For someone awfully involved in her son’s life, his _career_ she likes to say, Mark privately thinks she doesn’t know much about it. For starters, Mark has no idea how he’s supposed to help Jeno out, because Jeno likes sculpture and pottery best, while Mark considers himself far more of a painter (setting up with good oil paints for the first time had felt like a miracle). And Mark has a hard time believing that Jeno would ever ask for something like that. 

Though—if he did, Mark would try and make it happen. He would. Because they’re friends, and he’s pretty sure that’s the kind of things friends do for each other. 

“Are you uh. The gallery opening is tomorrow,” Mark says over their dry school lunches. Jeno pauses midway through his bite of so-called chicken sandwich. He nods with his mouth full. “Are you gonna come?” Mark finishes weakly. 

“I have to talk to my mom, but I wanna, of course I wanna,” Jeno says. “Hey, maybe our moms can finally meet!” 

“Uh.” Mark flashes back to a week ago, when he loitered in the kitchen doorway for a good fifteen minutes building up the courage to bring up the opening to his mom. In the end, he hadn’t been able to do it, and his mom had ended up snapping at him for standing there doing nothing. “Maybe.” 

That evening, he finds himself in an almost identical position. Mother had been fine with him going to the art school, once it became clear that Mr. Sooman would be covering the tuition until graduation, and that Mark could even get there on the bus by himself. And whenever Mark needs something signed, he just slides the paper in front of her and she signs it without so much as glancing at the contents. 

Truthfully, Mark is scared. He’s all right with being independent, but the threat of rejection is paralyzing. What if Mother doesn’t _want_ to come to the opening? What if she doesn’t care?

“Mom,” he whispers. She doesn’t hear him. A little louder, he repeats. “Mom. There’s a... thing tomorrow night.” 

Mother doesn’t look up from where she’s preparing dinner at the counter. “So you’re going to be home late? Just don’t expect dinner to be warm for you, and don’t be so late you miss the bus. You know I’m not going to drive out to Vancouver to get you.” 

“Actually... I was wondering if you wanted to come, too?” That gets her attention. “It’s a gallery opening,” Mark adds on. “That’s the thing I’ve been preparing for.” 

“It’s a what? End of school thing?” she asks with disinterest. 

“Not really. It’s just me,” Mark squeaks. “Solo. A solo show.” 

“This is tomorrow, and you’re just telling me about this now?” She says flatly. “Mark, it’s nice and all that you’re doing your art thing, but what did I tell you? It shouldn’t be interfering with family or God. You’re not going to be able to keep doing this when you get older, and then what will you have?”

Mark shrinks in on himself. “My pieces will be for sale. Maybe people will buy them. I could make us a little bit of money.” 

“So it’s a craft fair? Good, you can make your own bus fair.” 

Mark’s been finding ways to get his own bus fair for a while now, but he doesn’t bring that up. “It would mean a lot to me if you came. I’m the only person in my year who gets a solo show. It’s not even through the school?” 

Mother narrows her eyes. “Did you do something to get this solo thing? Something to do with that Sooman person?” 

“What?” Mark panics. “No—” 

The door opens. Slams shut. Heavy footfalls make their way to them. 

“Hello, my beautiful wife and wonderful son!” Father booms, too loud for their tiny house, the noise bouncing off the walls. 

“Jun,” Mother sighs. But she smiles, a small, fragile thing. Mark’s always thought she looks so beautiful when she does. Father claps his hand on Mark’s shoulder, and he feels like his entire vibrates with the impact. For once, he doesn’t smell like alcohol. 

“Jenna, make something Korean, please, I’m starving. And what are you up to, Mark?” 

“Nothing, he’s up to nothing,” Mother interjects. 

“I was telling mom about my solo show. It’s opening at a gallery tomorrow,” Mark risks saying. Mother will probably make him kneel and pray extra long, later, but it’s worth a shot. 

“A gallery thing?” His dad perks up. “That sounds wonderful! Jenna, we have to go, see what our kiddo is up to at that fancy school of his. What time is it?” 

“Seven,” Mark says, voice trembling with some dangerous—hope. Mother is frowning, but she doesn’t say anything. 

“Right. Perfect. Can do, kiddo. Now why don’t you go to your room while your mom and I talk about the details, hm?” 

Mark is so excited he doesn’t even think about the hungry rumbling of his stomach. Dinner can wait. They’re coming, they’re actually coming. He flops down on the bed and stares up at the ceiling without really seeing it. Instead, his mind whirls with the image of his mom smiling at him, his dad telling him how proud he is of him. 

In his mind they stand together, like the perfect family. One that loves each other all the time, and not just when it’s convenient. 

  


Mark goes straight to the gallery after school, stomach rolling with nerves. His teacher was kind enough to hang up his nice skirt and pants in her classroom all day so they wouldn’t be wrinkled; it’s the same pair he wears to church on Sundays. That makes them something of a holy thing, and well, Mark needs that presence tonight. 

It’s enough to go to the reception itself, and linger in the corner while people peruse his art and make awkward small talk with a teenager. It’s another thing entirely to have to wait for his parents, to hope his father isn’t drunk and is for once his friendly self. He’s been doing better lately. Everything will be fine. 

He’s also, undeniably, excited. Finally, his parents are coming to see what he does, what he loves. Maybe after tonight they’ll finally understand how important art is for him. How _good_ he is at it. It could be a future for them, for their family! That, more than getting his photo taken for Canadian newspapers, is what draws him. 

The curator is so excited to have him, and it infects Mark with the same thrill. He talks to reporters, shakes the hands of some very rich people. All the while he cranes his neck to peer out over the crowd, searching for two dark heads of hair. 

He doesn’t see them yet, but that’s ok. Mark’s been distracted, and Father is late to everything, anyways. Even as he talks to people—and it seems _everyone_ wants to talk—he strains his ears, trying to catch his parents bragging about him. 

It’s silly, though. He hears nothing, because there’s nothing to catch. 

Not even talking about seven, but soon enough eight comes and goes, too. People filter in and out. The organizer tells him this is really a great showing, helped by the buzz around his age. “Everyone wants to see Vancouver’s very own art phenom!” she says with glee. It’s the kind of thing that’s supposed to make him feel better, but tastes like ash in his mouth. 

“Mark!” He whirls around, and Jeno is right there, coming up on him fast. 

“Hi Jeno, hi Mrs. Lee,” Mark greets politely. Inside his chest, his heart hammers against his ribs, demanding to be set free. His smile is glued on with modge podge. 

“Your show is so cool, man. It’s amazing that you get to do this,” Jeno rambles. 

“Where are you parents, Mark? Jeno said they were coming,” Mrs. Lee searches around. 

“Ah, they were here but they had to leave!” Mark says quickly. “I’m sad that you didn’t get to meet them.”

“That’s very unfortunate indeed,” Mrs. Lee murmurs. No, that’s no good, she doesn’t completely believe him. 

“My mom has a really sensitive stomach,” Mark continues hastily. “They took me out to dinner before and she ate something bad. So my dad took her home.” 

“Well, Mark, I’d be happy to give you a ride home, if that’s the case.” 

Mark plasters on his best grin, better than if he painted it himself. “No thank you Mrs. Lee, that’s very kind of you to offer. But my dad is going to come back and pick me up, so you don’t have to.” 

Finally, that seems to mollify Mrs. Lee, though Mark has just let his only chance of getting home at a reasonable hour go down the drain. 

Well. At least Jeno is here to distract him now. It’s as if his friend has a protective bubble around him, or an aura that radiates good energy. Mark needs some of that right now, and for a time, it works. That is, until the showing starts to wind down, and it’s time for Jeno and his mom to go. 

“Are you sure you don’t need a ride?” She asks one more time, casting concerned glances around the emptying space. 

“No thank you Mrs. Lee, it’s like I said. I’m all set.” 

“You made some sales, Mark,” the organizer tells him. “Now... because you’re a minor, you’ll have to have your parents fill out some forms. Do you have that all set up?” She doesn’t ask why they’re not here at all, and for that, Mark is grateful. He’s already had to work hard at making excuses for them. 

“Sure, just give me the forms. My parents are good about that.” Mark says. He doesn’t know how to feel about the money. The figures make his head spin. Sure, the gallery takes 50%, but... Mark did this. _He_ made that kind of money. Way, way more than bus fair. 

“Also, some very kind agents left their cards.” Mark is handed a small handful of neatly printed business cards, some shining with gloss, others matte and heavy between his fingers. Not that it matters—they’ll all end up crushed in his pockets without him ever having looked at the numbers. 

It’s a long bus ride back to his neighborhood. When he gets home, the lights are off, everything cold. Wherever his parents did tonight, it didn’t involve him. He doesn’t bother turning on any of the lights; sometimes, it’s better to pretend he doesn’t exist at all. 

  


-

  


“I’m sorry,” Mark can’t quite keep his tears from thickening his voice. “I don’t want you to be mad.”

“Mad?” His mom hisses. _“Mad?_ You’re trying to say you’re no longer my son and you think I won’t be mad?” 

“That’s not what I’m saying at all!” His voice cracks when it peaks, and immediately, he cringes. He shouldn’t be raising his voice to his mom. “Please don’t say that, Mom. It’s just about the money.” 

Mother’s smile is a thin, joyless line. “The money, huh. Of course it is. After everything I’ve done for you as a mother, you want to take away what is supporting this family. I cannot believe the Lord has given me such an ungrateful child.” 

Mark is doing this all wrong. His lawyer was right—they should have done this at the law offices, instead of here, standing in the doorway to their house. Their _new_ house, upgraded in size and quality, in an ungraded neighborhood where no one knows them. Here, they’re the respectable Lee family with the talented son. 

Mother bought them this house, but she didn’t do it with money that she and father had been squirrelling away. The down payment came from sales Mark made, as the prices of his work go up and up and up, to the point where it doesn’t even seem like real money. It’s almost as if people trade his work for monopoly dollars. People talk about him on the internet. The local news station did a piece of him. He even got a call from a Phd student in America who wanted to talk to him about her _thesis._

Too bad Mark hasn’t seen much of this money himself. It all goes into an account with his mother’s name on it, and after that, he doesn’t know what happens to it. 

At first, he’d been all too happy to help. It’s natural. It’s what good sons _do._

But now it’s come to this. Mark with his room packed up and shiny legal documents signed and notarized. _Emancipation._ It’s a terrifying word. 

Mark Lee is sixteen year old. He’s had two solo gallery shows. One of his paintings now hangs in a museum (a small one, but still a museum). He no longer has a family, or at least that’s what this feels like. It’s summer, and his shirt is plastered to his back from the sweat. In one week, he turns seventeen. 

“Mom,” Mark says miserably. “Can we not do this?” 

“We don’t have to do anything,” she snaps. “ _You_ were the one who made that decision. _You_ were the one who wants to cut us out of your life. _You_ are the one who thinks they can do whatever they please.” 

“Not my life! Mom, I didn’t mean it like that. Just the money and stuff is all, I promise! I... I swear on the Lord, Mom, please.” 

“I don’t want to see you in this house again,” she continues as if he’d said nothing at all. Already, Mark feels like he’s shrinking away. He’s never felt so tiny and miserable in his life. “Unless you’re going to take this house from under me, too.”

“Am—am I not your son anymore?” Mark’s voice quivers. “Really?” 

Mother pins him to the wall with her glare. “Always remember, Mark Lee, this was your doing.” 

“Oh.” He can’t help it when he folds in on himself and sobs. He should take it back, he should go to his lawyer and rip up all the papers right now, even though he knows it’s impossible. The dominos have already been pushed over. 

There’s no sign of dad. There’s _never_ any sign of Father. He could have been sitting in the corner the entire time and it wouldn’t have made a shred of difference. 

The sobs last for a while. He goes until they turn to dry heaves, until his body gives absolutely everything it has to give. 

“Pathetic,” his mom whispers. 

“Sorry, mommy,” he says. He’s five years old, cowering in the kitchen after dropping and breaking a glass on the floor. He’s seven, head bowed in the pew. He’s thirteen, naively thinking his mom would come to his show. He’s eight and he’s sixteen, wishing he’d never gone to the museum that fateful day. 

“You can keep the house,” he says. “I’ll pay everything, forever. I promise.’ 

“It’s the least you can do.” 

They don’t tell each other goodbye. What more do you say to that? 

  


The tiny bottles sit there, innocuous, glowing in the fluorescent hotel fridge light. Smirnoff, Jack Daniels, a bottle of tequila with a blue label all in Spanish. There are things to mix them with too—aluminum cans in bright colors screaming _pick me I’m delicious_ ; Coke, Red Bull, tonic water. What on earth _is_ tonic water, anyways? 

He snatches up a can and pops it open. Cautiously, he takes a sniff. It doesn’t... smell like anything, really. Maybe tonic water is just a fancy name for seltzer. 

_Ugh,_ no, absolutely not just seltzer. One sip and Mark nearly spits the offending liquid out; it’s a battle just to force it down his throat. It’s unbelievable that people mix this in their drinks to make them taste _better._

Can of tonic water abandoned, he lies back on his hotel room carpet, the speckled ceiling staring back at him. It’s sunny all the time in LA, but Mark has the blinds shut tight. Enclosed in this room with its artificial light, sterile air, and generic furnishings, he could be anywhere in the world. 

Mark landed in the city yesterday—the organizer of the show at the Getty sent a car for him. Only he didn’t know it for the first thirty minutes in the US, because his phone refused to connect to the terrible LAX wifi, and it completely slipped his mind that his data wouldn’t work outside of Canada. Fortunately, the Getty organized that for him, too. 

It wouldn’t look good for one of the Getty Museum’s _Young Stars of Contemporary Art_ (or whatever the show is called—Mark’s forgotten) to look like an incompetent teenager, now would it? 

The door to the mini fridge still hangs open, the blue interior light shining onto the floor and illuminating Mark’s ankle in an unearthly glow. 

From the floor, he considers the bottles. Nothing about the liquid inside seems unusual. It doesn’t take any thought at all to roll onto his side and up, little to no resistance to twisting off the cap and swallowing down a mouthful. 

“Argh—jesus shit,” Mark chokes. It’s somehow even worse than the tonic water; in its wake it leaves the inside of his throat and stomach burning as if torched by wildfire. But that must be some kind of proof that he’s alive, isn’t it? His dad had to like this stuff for something, all those times he came home reeking just like this. So, why not? He forces down another gulp. 

Three hours later finds him in the same position, but with the empty bottle for company. 

“Hi mom,” he says to himself. The room is moving in strange ways. The fluffy white bathrobe hanging on the back of the door could be his mom under the right circumstances—and these are those circumstances. It feels the same as talking to her. “Hope everything’s going well. Hope you and dad are safe and healthy. I don’t think you’d like LA. It’s really hot and sunny, plus I don’t think you’d like the people too much. Everyone here drinks expensive coffee and I don’t think you like people who get plastic surgery like LA people do. It’s a shame... it’d be nice to take you somewhere.”

“Mom,” he sniffles. Is being drunk supposed to be fun? He’s falling down a well he can’t climb out of, one that just gets deeper and deeper as the light at the top slips away. “I miss you, talk soon, ‘kay?”

Time adopts a different texture after that, like the sludge at the bottom of a bad cup of coffee. He dreams but he doesn’t, the difference between the strange illusions of his mind and his waking dreams too much to decipher in the moment. At some point, he stops feeling his body. The tips of his fingers tingle pleasantly. 

“This is fun,” Mark giggles to himself. He presses himself up against the window to feel the coolness of the glass against his cheek. “Super fun.” 

Things are decidedly less fun in the morning, which finds him curled up on the bathroom floor, the fluorescent lights drilling into his brain, the acidic smell of vomit coming from the toilet. Something may have crawled inside his mouth and died while he was passed out on the bath mat. 

Wake up in LA, heat drying out your skin, rug burn on your cheek. 

A glance at his phone tells him he has a missed call from the Getty representative. It’s—disappointing, actually. It would feel a bit better to go off on a bender and have more people looking for you by the time it’s over. 

Mark pulls himself up to standing. “Man, you look like shit,” he tells his reflection. It’s not a pretty sight. There are puffy bags around his eyes that may never go away, and he prods at them gently with his pinky finger. 

The calendar notification on his phone goes off, telling him he’s got thirty minutes to somehow make himself presentable enough for the pre-opening walk through. Well. His stomach is still rolling, so at least he doesn’t have to worry about getting breakfast. 

Best get moving.

The Getty representative, a woman with a stern bun and corduroy pants, gives Mark a long once-over as he hurries to meet her at the museum side-door. But she stays silent, and for that Mark is thankful. He doesn’t need anyone to point out the obvious. 

Formally, the event doesn’t begin until tonight, at seven when the exhibit doors open to high-paying donors and important LA people that pay a premium just to be seen in these kinds of rooms. But Mark is here early to make a final check on the curator’s work, but more importantly, to be present for more than a few photo-ops. 

For this show, each artist was given a small piece of gallery space, white walls, and were told to express themselves. Mark had submitted a series of oil paintings, eight in total, that wrapped around the gallery wall. 

Of all things, he’d taken inspiration from a flipbook, the kind anyone could make as long as they had enough patience and sticky notes to execute. In the first painting on the left hand side, the visually-represented Mark tosses a ball into the air. In the paintings that come after, the ball flies across one side of the room, and Mark chases after it on the other, until they come together in the painting opposite the first. The collision comes with an explosion of color. 

He crinkles his nose when he reads the curator’s wall text. 

_Mark Lee, Vancouver, CA_

_The youngest artist shown at seventeen years old, Mark Lee uses refined visual skills to bring to life evocative, touching, and empathetic scenes of everyday life. As seen in the series presented here today, one of the main subjects in Lee’s work has been himself. Due to his young age, this has led to an extensive catalog of moments documenting his coming of age._

It makes it all seem so ingenuous. So... pretentious. And beyond that, even perhaps embarrassed. Although the exhibition is, in the first place, a highlight of up-and-coming artists, Mark is by far the youngest. From what he’s heard, the next youngest artist is twenty three and just out of art school. Beside them, Mark is going to look like a child. 

“Mr. Lee, is everything alright?” one of the assistants asks him. 

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Mark says. Even if it weren’t, it’s not like he’s going to ask them to change anything now. That would be too rude to stomach. 

“Perfect, if you’ll come this way, we’d like to take a few photos of you with the exhibit.” 

“Yeah, whatever you need.” 

He floats through being poked and prodded, posed and told to smile, please. Everyone always tells him it’s in his best interest to smile pretty for the cameras, so that way he’ll look good in magazines and on the homepage of _Hyperallergic._

A lot of people have ideas they like to share about what’s in his _best interest._

A few hours of that along with awkward socializing with the other artists, and Mark is free to go. The other participants chat about getting lunch together at a raw vegan place down the road in their tight circle that Mark’s isn’t included in. His heart twinges, just for a moment, before being overpowered by something else entirely. 

Fortunately the bathroom he finds is empty, so there’s no one around to hear the pathetic sounds of him puking into the toilet. When he heaves, the sweetness of the Jack and coke is not something that finds him well at all. By now, a pounding headache is setting in as well. 

Fuck it, he wouldn’t want to get lunch anyways. He’s going back to his hotel, slamming the blinds, and squeezing in a few more hours of precious sleep.

  


Mark jerks his head towards the wall with his name written on it in huge block lettering. “You know I’m seventeen, right?” 

The man—more like a _boy,_ he doesn’t seem much older than any of these rising stars themselves—shows all of pearly teeth to Mark when he smiles. “So am I,” he says. He re-extends the glass he offered to Mark a second ago and pops his eyebrow. “So? Do you want some?” 

“Happy to.” Mark grabs the glass, his fingers brushing over the man’s in the process. God, they’re _huge._ The champagne flute is lighter than Mark would have expected—it’s almost weightless in his glass, like he could dangle it between only two fingers. “Uh, you are...?” 

“Wong Yukhei,” the man says, voice rising and falling to hit the tones, out of place in English. “Call me Lucas.” 

“Nice to meet you, I guess,” Mark says after a large mouthful of champagne. It’s significantly better than the hard stuff from the mini-fridge; and his stomach doesn’t start complaining immediately. It pops and fizzles in his mouth. Like Pop Rocks, fun. He eyes Lucas and tries to get a better read on him. He comes up blank. “Are you uh... why are you here?” 

Lucas laughs like this is something hilarious. He shrugs loosely. “For fun? My dad’s like a—” he waves his hand around in some vague fashion, “—collector. It’s fun to leave Hong Kong and go places with him. Pretty stuff to look at.” 

The once-over Lucas gives him tells Mark the other boy isn’t talking about the art. Would it be possible for his _toes_ to be blushing? 

“See—” Mark stutters. He’s fucking this up already, but the wine is already working its magic on his tongue. “See anything you like?” 

Surprisingly, Lucas blushes behind the hand that covers half of his face. Ok, so maybe the other boy isn’t so smooth and suave after all. He may look straight out of Mark’s dreams, but Lucas _is_ mortal and not immune to getting flustered. 

Mark did that. Mark’s stupid smile and lame joke caused a cute boy to blush. 

“Hey, I kind of hate this.” Lucas jerks backwards, and Mark is left to scramble. Another loss for his big mouth. “No—not, uh, _you,_ but like this event. Not really my scene.” 

Lucas nods slowly, in the way that Mark knows means he doesn’t understand at all. He sighs. “What I mean is that do you, um, want to get out of here?” 

To that Lucas agrees enthusiastically. 

The Getty has more than a few gardens and terraces to find some solitude in. High up on the dry hills of LA, the city pours down around them, the tiny twinkling lights pouring like water from the falls of Bel Air, all the way down to the Pacific. 

_Somewhere else_ calls gently from beyond the horizon. 

“It’s really pretty,” Lucas says. It’s not just stupid small talk. 

“I guess there’s smog a lot of the time,” Mark says. 

“You guess?” 

“It’s my first time in LA,” Mark admits shyly. To Lucas, it must be no big deal to fly to different cities all over the world. He’s probably been to a hundred different cities, while this is Mark’s first time outside of the Vancouver metropolitan area, much less Canada. They’re the same age, but beside Lucas, Mark feels like such a kid. 

From his inner pocket, Lucas pulls out a rumpled carton of cigarettes. Marlboros—he must’ve gotten them at LAX along with the tiny clear lighter. Mark watches as he lights the cigarette and leans out over the railing. 

Lucas is beautiful, too. 

“Do you...?” Lucas holds out the cigarette, and Mark’s mind freezes. 

“Sorry. I’ve never...” 

“Don’t drink, don’t smoke,” Lucas laughs. He’s teasing, but in a light way. Mark doesn’t feel like he’s being made fun of, but for once, is in on the joke. “You’re a good kid, Mark Lee.” 

“Never said I didn’t drink, never said I didn’t smoke.” Mark uses Lucas’ surprise to snatch the cigarette pinned between his fingers. Throwing caution to the wind he tries to imitate the way Lucas breathed in dragging the smoke into his mouth and lungs. 

He pulls back, spluttering. It wasn’t—pleasant, but better than the hard liquor. With his body already tingling from the champagne, the smoke rolls around comfortable in his chest cavity. Not bad. 

Lucas pats his back with his massive hand. If anything, that hurts Mark more than coughing on the cigarette did. 

“Not bad! Not bad!” 

Mark blooms at the praise, even when it’s over something like this. It’s not at all a conventional situation, but something about this feels—normal. Mark feels like a normal teenager, sneaking away from the party with a boy whose touch lingers. 

He passes the cigarette back to Lucas, and they continue to smoke back and forth in comfortable silence. Each time their fingers brush on the passover leaves Mark’s fingertips tingling, and he’s sure it’s not just from the nicotine rush. Is Lucas feeling the same? 

Eventually, the cigarette burns down to the filter, and Lucas stamps it out on the garden tile. He doesn’t pull out another. 

“Is it fun, being you?” Lucas asks suddenly. 

“I don’t know how to answer that question,” Mark whispers. They’re standing very close. It’s making it difficult to breathe. “Is it fun being you?” 

“When I get to do stuff like this,” Lucas answers, “yeah. It’s really fun.” 

This is the part of the feel-good teen movie where the music picks up. Mark tilts his chin up, rises up onto the balls of his feet automatically, like knowing how to be kissed is engrained somewhere in his DNA. And Lucas leans down, cups Mark’s jaw with those hands that make him go a little faint, a little dizzy, for their lips to meet. 

There are no fireworks, because this isn’t _really_ a movie, but it is LA, so somewhere off in the distance, a car backfires and the sound of it echoes across the walls of the canyon. 

“Oh, wow,” Mark breathes into the narrow space between their parted lips before flushing. He didn’t mean to say that out loud. All those years staring at Jeno’s lips and finally he knows what it feels like. 

“You’re really cute when you’re about to be kissed,” Lucas tells him. Their noses are still so close together—Lucas is still cradling his jaw like a precious thing. “Your eyes got all wide and round.” 

“No,” Mark, well, pouts. 

“Yes. Super cute,” Lucas laughs. He leans in and kisses Mark again, and the second time is easier than the first. It’s not that hard, Mark finds, to relax himself and go with the flow, moving where Lucas moves. Somewhere in the background, his mind is whirling, second-guessing every hand placement, if his lips are too chapped; but it’s all shoved to the side in favor of just how damn _good_ being kissed is. 

This is great. This is another kind of addiction entirely. In the morning, Mark is going to settle down in his hotel room with his travel painting set and splash bright colors across his canvas, putting down how this feels right now. 

There’s a reason sins are what they are. You can’t get enough of them, that’s the whole point. Whatever. Mark hasn’t been to church in a year—and the last thing he wants to be doing right now is think of his _priest._

Feeling braver than he perhaps ever has before, Mark surges up further and wraps his hand around the back of Lucas’ neck to pull them closer. His tongue swipes along the bottom of Lucas’ lip. 

They’re both out of breath when they find themselves pulling back. Mark must be blushing from his neck to his ears. 

“I got you all wrong,” Lucas laughs. “You’re brave as hell, aren’t you?” 

“You’re just too tall, is all,” Mark mumbles. 

“You’re something else, Mark Lee,” Lucas says. “One day, everyone in the world is going to know your name.” 


	2. Mis / Fit (2019, mixed media, 2’ x 2’)

**_Portrait of the Artist: Mark Lee_ **

**profile by Taeyong Lee for _Vanity Fair_**

  


**_British Columbia—_ ** _It’s difficult to describe the beauty of British Columbia unless you’ve been there yourself. It’s awesome in the original sense of the word: awe-inspiring, a characteristic that doesn’t fully come across in photographs or paintings. Indeed, the natural landscape here would be quite the subject for an artist, as it was for the likes of E.J. Hughes and the countless others who have tried to record this place’s majesty._

_The particular artist who calls this place home, however, more often turns his gaze towards the self._

_To be talented is one thing. To be gifted is another. Mark Lee, only 22 years of age, has learned this the hard way. Propelled to the very tops of the art market as a tender teenager, Lee has followed in the footsteps of some of the great prodigies of the past, in more ways than one._

_Lee has a warm smile, a bright laugh. And for a teenager, very, very serious eyes._

_For Lee, the journey hasn’t always been smooth sailing. Staggering success at shows and at auction have been paired with front page splashes in gossip magazines. Lee’s arrival on the global stage caught more than just the attention of the art world—and the media loves a prodigy._

_Though one of their favorite topics, Lee has been so far reticent to grant interviews as his career has developed. His strongest interview presence dates back to when he was barely a pre-teen. Lee noticeably pulled back from coverage as soon as stories started to run of him staying up all night at Paris raves, indulging in less-than-legal substances, and of catching brunch with social media starlets._

_Despite the increased attention from international audiences, the same exposure also opened Lee up to a fresh rush of resources both monetary and artistic. As a child, he never left the Vancouver metropolitan area. Now, Mark flies around the world, from Paris, to Hong Kong, to the Swiss Alps. Galleries blow up his phone for new work. Pieces less than a year old sell for eye-watering prices at auction._

_“I don’t appreciate being painted as yet another prodigy burnout,” Lee says. There’s white paint on the cuff of his flannel shirt. The rumor mill about_ this _says that Lee is on sabbatical, but clearly he’s been doing some form of painting. “But people see what they want to see—they tell the story that fits into the narrative they’ve already created.”_

_It_ would _make a good story. But it’s not the one Mark Lee wants to tell._

  


  


  


**Mis / Fit (2019, mixed media, 2’ x 2’)**

**_Neo Culture Couture, Paris, France_ **

  


Technically, Paris’ esteemed gallery _Neo Culture Couture_ , located in an alley off the Boulevard de Clichy doesn’t open until 2pm. But when you’re Mark Lee, you can get in early, which is exactly how the boy in question finds himself waiting outside the gallery’s front entrance—which for almost any other establishment, would be the _back_ entrance—for Taemin Lee himself to let him in. 

Taemin Lee is more than an icon in the art world, he’s practically an urban legend. Gallery owners are known to be charismatic, but few of them are as eccentric and illusive as Taemin Lee. This is the man who sold the daughter of a Russian diplomat $100,000 in french pastry models. He sold the rights to a one-time-only work of performance art to a Hollywood director. His is the gallery of choice for KAI, the person who brought Lay Zhang’s work to the western market. 

Ok, Mark is maybe more than a little giddy. He might have the _slightest_ bit of a crush on Taemin. An intellectual crush! 

Apparently, Taemin’s also got a soft spot for kids with the same family name as him. 

At the head of the alley, shrouded in the bright morning light, Taemin appears. As he gets closer, it becomes clear he’s holding two tiny cappuccino to-go cups in his hand with a bag from the local patisserie looped around his elbow. 

“Mark Lee!” the man smiles. On instinct Mark extends his hand, then quickly realizes Taemin has his own hands full, and then dips instead into an awkward half-bow. 

“Ah no, don’t worry about it,” Taemin encourages. When close enough he tilts his cheek towards him, and Mark mirrors the movement. _Kiss kiss._ “In France we do it like this.” In Mark’s ear, he says lower, “I know what it’s like to be caught between all these different cultures.” 

From what Mark knows, Taemin is properly Korean, like born-in-Korea Korean, unlike Mark who owes is Canadian passport to the Korean War diaspora. The Wikipedia article on Taemin—yes, Mark did spend last night doing some Googling—says he attended a French international school in Seoul before moving on to a boarding school in the French countryside for secondary school. 

“Like being stretched in five different directions,” Mark says, and it makes Taemin smile. 

Mark holds the cappuccinos while Taemin lets them in. _Neo Culture Couture_ is located in an old Parisian carriage house, the original three doors replaced with massive, curved windows. The squat, two storey building even has a balcony overlooking the front; said balcony has seen many dramatic moments according to the lore online, from Italian opera performances, to when Taemin himself got miserably drunk off wine and threatened to leap over the railing in an impressive show of theatrics. Mark’s seen quite a few YouTube videos featuring this balcony as a setting. 

Like most galleries Mark’s been in, the interior is carefully designed and lit. A beautiful space to show off beautiful things. Taemin is well known for letting artists not just into his space, but letting them change everything should it align with their artist vision. The only thing that never changes is the first wall of the gallery, a wall of photos of Taemin with each of the artists that have come through his space. 

And soon, Mark’s black and white polaroid will be up there, too. 

The exhibit Taemin is currently hosting is one with a lot of buzz around it. It’s far from the most controversial, or the most experimental, but much like Taemin himself, people can’t seem to stop talking about KAI. Mark sees the appeal of his work, of course. 

The show is a series of stunning photographs—black and white gelatin prints—and videos. Far from KAI’s most expansive or interactive, but flawlessly executed. Mark’s in awe looking at them.

“The critics,” Taemin pauses disdainfully on that word. _Critics._ “Say that KAI is the second-coming of Robert Maplethorpe, his depiction of the human body in motion and stillness somewhere between him and William Forsythe. Naturally the art world is obsessed with him. It doesn’t hurt that he’s drop-dead gorgeous himself,” Taemin says with mirth. 

Mark blushes. Some of the photos are indeed of the man KAI. It’s hard not to stare at the dip of his abs and the curve of his pec, the way the tendon running alongside his thigh bulges and is caught by the light. Some people are born with this much talent _and_ good looks. That’s just fucking unfair. 

This show is not the only reason Mark is here. KAI’s show lasts through the summer, but after that, Taemin wants Mark. He _asked_ for Mark, personally, by calling his personal number completely unannounced one day. Actually, Mark’s still got no idea how Taemin even got his number in the first place. Possibly it was his agent, but he burns through agents every few months, so it’s hard to say who, exactly, could have done it.

“If we’re comparing him to masters, I’d say it’s more Edward Weston than Mapplethorpe,” Mark says. To that Taemin says nothing, and when Mark looks at the man he has a tilted smile on his face. 

“You have a keen eye,” he says, coming to stand beside Mark in front of one of KAI’s massive photographs. It depicts a thin male body, naked, part dancer and part abstract, twisting into the shape of a flower on a black backdrop. It is both a clinical study and artistic rendering. “People see a naked man and are fast to jump to Mapplethorpe, as if he was the only one to ever document sex, homosexuality, or the human body. But you’re quite right—in Jongin’s photographic work, eroticism takes a backseat to the study of form and movement. Weston. He would appreciate that comparison, I think.” 

“Sorry, Jongin?” Mark says, then cringes. The syllables that flowed so freely from Taemin’s mouth sound clunky on Mark’s tongue. He feels stupid, but Taemin eyes are gentle. Mark has a hard time seeing why other people call him intimidating. Plus he probably weighs like, a hundred pounds soaking wet. 

“KAI.” Taemin shows him the polaroid of the two of them on the wall. It’s evident the artist is the taller of the two, and he has his arm slung around Taemin’s shoulder to pull the gallery owner in tight under his chin. A bright smile lights up his face. The expression is a far cry from the smolder in the photographs. “He’s a close friend of mine, from before the exhibit. I have the valuable bragging rights in saying that I gave him the push to move from modeling to photography.” 

“I didn’t know he used to be a model.”

“And a dancer,” Taemin adds, now sounding definitely like a proud friend. “Darling, with a face like that? Of course he was. Gucci wanted him, but as I told him, there’s more to life than ugly sweaters.” 

“He made the right decision,” Mark says as he looks back at the photographs. “These are amazing. Thank you for letting me in so early to see them.” 

“My pleasure, Mark.” Taemin’s hand is warm against where it makes contact with his upper back. “Artists themselves should always have the opportunity to commune with other work. And besides, I knew you would like KAI’s work—I’ve seen you Eikoh Hosoe sketches.” 

Mark flushes. “Oh, god, I was a kid.” 

“You were eight years old,” Taemin says precisely, as if he’s reading Mark’s bio straight off the Sotheby’s website. “I suggest you revisit them. They truly are quite extraordinary.” 

“God, I haven’t thought of those in ages.” Although he recalls the day he first met Mr. Sooman frequently, the finer details are often blurred around the edges. What he remembers most, strangely, is how good the lunch he ate at the restaurant was. But it doesn’t surprise him that Mr. Sooman spirited those sketches away somewhere; in twenty years, Mark’s “discovery sketches” as they’re sometimes called in collection, will be worth a small fortune. But perhaps Taemin has a point. They would be interesting to look at, now. 

“I think you’ll find, Mark, that we can learn potent things from the perception of our past deeds.” Coming from Taemin’s mouth, it’s appropriately poetic, but Mark is too embarrassed to ask Taemin what, exactly, he means by it. 

Taemin ushers them upstairs to his office, the room with the balcony attached. They talk business over their coffee and pastry, a way of doing things that makes Mark feel cultured and sophisticated, an ill-fitting coat on him. 

As amazing at KAI’s work is, Mark has his own work and career to talk about, and Taemin listens with rapt attention. He tucks thoughts of the smoldering eyes downstairs away for later. 

  


Mark returns to his Airbnb exhausted and throat sore from speaking. He’s not really used to... talking for the sake of talking. Usually, people have an agenda. A point they want to make. 

From the safety of his blanket-cocoon, Mark looks up _Jongin Kim_.

At once, his phone screen is filled not with artsy photos of the artist known as KAI, but editorial images. Paparazzi photos. There are images of tall, slim girls wrapped in metallic dresses hanging off his arm as they walk out of a club; there are ones where _Jongin_ is the arm candy, sipping champagne next to heads of fashions houses and labels, looking gorgeous and absolutely untouchable. 

For some reason, the first thought that occurs to Mark is, _his shoulders got wider._

He feels bad for thinking it immediately. Jongin is, technically, a colleague. It’s impolite to, well, lust after a contemporary, one that Mark has never actually met. But Jongin is very beautiful—at some point, that becomes a simple fact, and the fact still stands. 

The black and white photographs comes to mind. The line of Jongin’s body, contorting and reducing himself to form and line, the ripples of his muscles straining to reach the perfect aesthetic look. There are plenty of photos of Jongin out in the world. Which ones contain the truth of him? 

  


-

  


A phone call wakes Mark from the haze of a dream. The details of it are already gone, but he can recall the atmosphere, the smell of fresh mountain air like the kind that surrounds Vancouver like a blanket. Was he dreaming of home? It’s been a long time since he has; even longer since he’s thought of Vancouver as home at all. 

What he would like to do is return to the confines of the comforter and try to find his way back to sleep. But the caller-ID leaves no room for argument. 

When Mr. Sooman calls, Mark always picks up. 

“Good morning, Mr. Sooman,” Mark says, repressing a yawn. On the other end of the line, Mr. Sooman chuckles. 

_“I often forget that you are a teenager,”_ he says. Mark chooses not to mention that he’s _not_ a teenager, not now that he’s twenty. _“Most people would not call 12:25 the_ morning _.”_

For the first time since being pulled out of his dream, Mark glances at the alarm clock and learns that it does, indeed say that it’s 12:25 in the afternoon. Not technically morning at all. 

“Um. Yeah, you’re probably right about that,” Mark mutters. He throws the covers aside and swings his legs off the bed, stretching them out into the cool air. He has a feeling he should be more awake for this conversation; Mr. Sooman never calls just to _chat._

_“Enjoying Paris?”_

Like most major things in Mark’s life, his temporary relocation to France had involved Mr. Sooman. The connection to Taemin, though, came all on his own. He has some pride in that. 

“I am,” Mark says. “It’s impossible not to, I think. It’s a beautiful city.” 

Mr. Sooman hums in agreement. _“So full of life and culture, I could hardly agree more. Well. Are you free today, around two? I’d like you to meet me for afternoon tea, there’s something I wish to talk through with you.”_

“I didn’t realize you were in Paris yourself.” 

_“Down from London just for the week.”_

There were rough sketches of the day planned in Mark’s mind, but he can find another day to paint the western gardens. It’s Mr. Sooman asking, though, so of course Mark says, “yes, of course I can meet you. Your assistant will send the address?” 

_“Very good. I’ll have her send a car, as well.”_

“No, no.” Mark glares at the bright rays of sun shining in through the window, glinting off the bronze terrace. “It’s a nice day, I’ll ride my bike.” 

Mr. Sooman chuckles. _“You’re becoming more European by the day. At two, then.”_

Mark groans when he hangs up the phone. Something was strange about the way he slept last night; his bones are stiff and groaning. With the utmost reluctance, he pulls himself out of bed and into the shower, then into proper clothing. The kind of clothes Mr. Sooman would want to see him in, and not his normal getup over oversized t-shirts, varsity jackets, and jeans. The expectation for artists to dress in a cool way is unfair—why would he wear _nice_ things when he gets paint on everything he owns, anyways? The inside of all his jean pockets are stained with charcoal; anything that goes in there, including his phone, comes out with dark smudges. 

Like he said he would, Mark takes the bicycle that came with the Airbnb to the cafe Mr. Sooman’s assistant sent along. The apartment he’s staying in is in the northern 8th, so he pedals along the Seine to the cafe, a place with a view of the Notre Dame. It’s a bit cliche for Mark’s tastes, but he knows Mr. Sooman has a particular taste in establishments and aesthetics. When he arrives, the hostess bustles him to a table by the wide windows, where the older man is reading a French newspaper with a porcelain cup at his elbow. 

Just because there aren’t papers (contracts, background research, the works) on the table now, doesn’t mean there won’t be. Mr. Sooman has a discrete briefcase with him at all times. 

“Mark,” he greets kindly. “Paris looks good on you.” 

“Thank you,” Mark says. “It’s the air, I think.” 

“The masters of the past,” Mr. Sooman nods knowingly. “You can feel them in the atmosphere.” Yeah. Sure. Let’s go with that. Mark was thinking something close to along the lines of all the chain-smoking he’d been doing, but the spirit of the old masters floating through the air works, too. 

As per usual, Mr. Sooman allows Mark to order something and settle in, take a few bites of his pastry, before addressing the real topic. For a cutthroat businessman—according to a Forbes list Mark once found—Mr. Sooman is surprisingly polite and courteous. At least, to Mark, who is both an investment and a passion project. 

Mark must never let himself forget the _investment_ part of that equation, though. 

“How is your work going in the city?” Mr. Sooman smoothly pivots to something more on-topic than idle chit-chat and the quality of Parisian cheese shops.

“Well,” Mark answers, “I feel refreshed. Refreshed and inspired.” 

“I hope you aren’t too busy as to not get to enjoy some of the city.” It would be unfathomably rude to mention that painting is exactly what Mark would be doing if he weren’t speaking to Mr. Sooman right now; old habits of politeness are embroidered into the fabric of his mind. 

And besides which, well—Mark has been more than a little distracted lately. 

“No, no, wouldn’t dream of it.” 

“Your work is what I wanted to talk to you about today, as a matter of fact.” 

_I know,_ Mark bites his tongue. It’s better than biting the hand that feeds.

Every great artist needs a patron; even Michelangelo had one. Squinting at Mr. Sooman, at the right angle, he could become a convincing Pope Julius II under Mark’s brush and ministrations. He wonders if the man would find the comparison flattering or insulting. 

“There is a rumor going around that you were at _Neo Culture Couture_ last week,” Mr. Sooman says, and Mark swallows his surprise. He is, but he shouldn’t be. This is not the type of thing to escape Mr. Sooman’s notice. “I’d like to congratulate you on catching Taemin’s attention. He has quite the discerning eye.” 

“Thanks. It means a lot.” 

“Have you discussed plans for a show?” 

Probing for information now. Mark swirls his coffee. As a teenager, he had no clue how to play this game, but he knows better, now. He only learned from the best. “Nothing yet,” Mark says. “At the end of the year, maybe. But it’s hard to say.” 

“A man like Taemin is a valuable connection to have.” There’s something impressive about the way Mr. Sooman can say things like that with a straight face and clear conscience. Mark wouldn’t be able to it and still look at himself in the mirror. “He has an infinite amount of connections in the high art world.” 

“So do you,” Mark flatters. “Don’t count yourself short now.” 

Mr. Sooman laughs. “You do all my boasting for me, my boy. High art is not precisely what I wanted to talk to you about today, however.” 

Perfect, right as Mark’s coffee is starting to get cold. 

“There’s an opportunity for you with Adidas, I’m sure you’ve heard of them.” Mark nods, not that Mr. Sooman is looking for participation. “Streetwear, as I’m sure you also know, is quite hot these days. As you—ahem—ditched your last agent at the airport, Adidas came to me suggesting the partnership. I have a connection with the Board.” 

All of a sudden, Mark’s throat feels dry. He finds it difficult to speak, and isn’t sure why. “What’s—what’s the offer?” 

“They want Mark Lee originals, a limited-edition line. Other artists have done it. It would be a valuable collaboration, both monetarily and for name-recognition. You’re well-known in the art world, but to be a household one is the next level.” 

Mark’s not sure he even _wants_ to be a household name. He thinks of Keith Haring illustrations on COACH bags, of suburban moms showing off the illustration of a gay man with AIDS at their kid’s soccer game. He thinks of Basquiat sketches on $20 t-shirts in the mall—maybe Warhol really will get the last laugh when it comes to consumerism. 

So, Mark’s instinct says no, fuck no. 

But. Mark’s life isn’t so simple, now is it? Not when he can read the expectation written across Mr. Sooman’s face. 

“Can I think about it?” Mark asks, feeling all of thirteen again. He can’t even give a yes or no. Embarrassing. 

“Of course,” Mr. Sooman says with clear disappointment. “It’s not prudent to rush into business decisions. My assistant will email you a copy of the proposed contract so you can read through it.” 

“Great, thank you Mr. Sooman,” Mark says. His smile doesn’t _quite_ reach his eyes, but he tries to get it there. “For everything, as usual.” 

“My pleasure, Mark, you know that by now.” 

By now, Mark knows that’s a lie. 

  


-

  


“Hey.” 

_“Hi baby,”_ Ten croons. Mark can imagine him, vividly, draped like a silk sheet over the blue couch in his London flat, the tassels of the tacky lamp in the corner throwing strange shadows over the walls. 

“Take the train down to Paris tomorrow.”

_“Not even_ asking, _hmm?”_ Ten gasps in fake outrage. _“What if I have plans?”_

“Cancel them,” Mark laughs, put-on bravado cracking a bit. He and Ten always play these little games with each other. “I want to go out. Stay up all night and go to an after-hours place in the morning.” 

_“Then get pastries,”_ Ten adds. Mark hums in agreement. _“Shall we go to a proper rave?”_

“So you’re coming?” 

_“Of course I’m coming, I’m packing my bag as we speak. You better not abandon me to a sexy Frenchman who rolls his own cigarettes.”_

“No, that’s what _you_ would do to _me_ ,” Mark says. “What if _I’m_ becoming a sexy Frenchman who rolls his own cigarettes?”

_“Well then don’t bother putting trousers on, because I’m going to suck you off in the stairwell the moment I arrive.”_

Mark snorts through his nose, and Ten cackles from the other side of the English Channel. 

  


Ten arrives with his same usual set of dramatics. He’s sporting a custom leather jacket with a bright heart on the back, along with leather pants so tight they could be painted on his skin. The white shirt is nondescript, but the white snakeskin boots are not. At his side is a vintage traveling trunk—one of the least practical things in the world, but very, very Ten. 

One of the things Mark loves the most about Ten is that he doesn’t, not for a single moment, give a fuck about what anyone else thinks of him. 

“Ah, my baby!” Ten coos, emerging from his taxi. He pinches Mark’s cheeks obnoxiously when he gets close enough. They’re only three years apart, but ever since they met last year, Ten has apparently appointed himself as Mark’s honorary older brother. And if Mark is being completely honest with himself, it does sometimes feel nice to be babied. But only by Ten. 

So in return, Mark scoops Ten up, heavy case and all, and spins him around on the sidewalk. “You’re heavier than I thought,” Mark laughs, his back groaning. 

“Didn’t you know I’m a dragon hoarding shiny things?” Ten’s eyes twinkle. “I get old men to buy me pretty jewelry and then I _eat it.”_

The image of Ten hanging off some man’s arm, pretending to enjoy whatever the British choose to call food flashes through his mind. Ugh. 

Upstairs, Ten has no problem making himself right at home. He settles down into Mark’s couch, much less ostentatious than his own, while Mark pours them both a glass of wine. One of the reasons Mark enjoys Paris so much is that it’s appropriate to drink wine at any meal, or really, any time at all. Right now, that means one in the afternoon. 

“What’s been going on with you, hmm?” Ten swirls the glass with his delicate fingers. “I expect you called me down here out of the blue for _some_ reason.” 

“I can’t just want to see my friend?” Mark sits down on the couch with a reasonable amount of space between them, but Ten won’t have it, as he immediately scootches closer and throws one of his legs over Mark’s, properly entwining their limbs. 

Ten doesn’t even say anything, just raises a sharp brow and takes a sip of his wine. 

“Ugh,” Mark sighs. The crown molding of this apartment has a nice silhouette. “Someone wants me to sign a contract for something and I don’t know what the right choice is.” 

Ten reaches over and holds Mark’s free hand in his own. The rings glitter in the afternoon light that comes in through the sheer curtains; it’s one of the reasons Mark chose this apartment in the first place. Ten got them from one of the numerous men in his life, and he told Mark his name once, but he can’t quite remember it now. Cam? Kun? Something like that. Or maybe it was the American. 

“It’s a commercial work gig. Shoes,” Mark says. “Don’t think I’m insulting you or anything.” It just now occurs to him that Ten might find Mark’s reluctance for this a bit insulting compared to his own line of work.

“Even I can agree putting Monet on Louis Vuitton handbags is tasteless,” Ten tells him. “I’m a fashion designer, not a total sellout. But babe, I don’t see what’s so bad about doodling on some sneakers.” 

“It’s a cash grab.” 

“Yes and... I fail to see the problem?” 

“Ten,” Mark groans. In a much smaller voice, he says, “I want people to take me seriously.” 

“Honey,” Ten sighs carefully. He sweeps his hands through Mark’s hair. His nails are on the longer side, painted with pastels, and they scratch soothingly against Mark’s scalp. Like a cat. It’s not a bad feeling. “You’re going to have your first retrospective before you’re 25. Everyone takes you plenty serious. Plus, Taemin wants your work. Isn’t that a strong enough signal?”

“You know Taemin?” 

Ten rolls his eyes. “Of course I know Taemin. Baby, I’m what you plebeians call _well-connected._ The opinion of the art world is not your problem. What you _could_ do is lighten up a bit.” Ten’s lips smack against his cheek. “That’s what I’m here for. So. I know why you want to refuse, but what’s actually stopping you from saying no?” 

“Money. Exposure,” Mark pauses. Those things don’t have anything to do with it. “Mr. Sooman. _He_ wants the deal.”

“So?” 

“I owe him, Ten, you know that. I owe him everything.” 

“You may feel like you owe him, but he doesn’t _own_ you. There’s a big difference there, Markie.” 

Mark reaches for the bottle of wine and takes a swig straight from the bottle. It’s a sweet, fruity wine and compared to what Mark’s used to, doesn’t burn on the way down. 

“Ew,” Ten says when Mark hands him the bottle for his turn, but doesn’t waste the opportunity to take another gulp himself. 

They spend the rest of the afternoon like that—passing the wine back and forth until it hits empty, and Ten is coaxing the last drops of red liquid from the neck. His lips are stained the most lovely color, better than any makeup job, and Mark stalls them both just to try and capture it with his oil pastels. 

After, they smoke cigarettes with the balcony door thrown open, and Mark’s stained fingers rub their color off onto the white paper. 

“Hard to call them death sticks when they look like a sunrise,” Ten comments. He blows his exhale towards Mark’s face just to tease him. 

“New marketing tactic.”

“Maybe you should just smudge your fingers all over those sneakers of yours and wait for the cheque to clear.” 

Mark throws the empty pack of cigarettes at Ten’s head. It misses, of course. 

Ten ducks in close, presses his face against the skin of Mark’s neck; his body shifts to accommodate. When Mark and Ten first met, over a year ago now, he wasn’t prepared for how _touchy_ Ten was. He’d gone from being near touch-starved to cuddled every minute he was in Ten’s presence. 

If asked about it now, Ten would complain that Mark had been so frosty when they met, and that Ten decided he needed to warm Mark up, that was all. And the best way to do that is through the magic of body heat—you can learn that from wilderness survival shows. 

Comparing their friendship to survival is... not far off, if Mark is being honest with himself. After more or less fleeing North America as a teenager, Mark had a patron, an on-and-off boyfriend on the other side of the planet, and a growing social media following. No actual _friends,_ no one to look out for him, no parents to call home to, until Ten saddled up to him at an art school party in London.

The story of how Ten accidentally-on-purpose spilled his drink on a girl’s phone who wouldn’t leave Mark alone, and then proceeded to hold his hand while Mark puked outside of the entrance to the tube is legendary on the University of the Arts campus. Ten himself will always be seen as a party god there, but Mark’s vowed to never show his face on campus again. 

When Mark woke up that next morning, there had been a phone number scribbled on Mark’s Oyster card, and that, as they say, was that. Friends ever since, and Ten has been busy in the past year, both in getting Mark _into_ bad situations as well as digging him out of them. 

“I want to kiss you right now,” Mark says, a little drunk. Ten’s side profile is beautiful, especially in this light, with Paris the background. 

Ten laughs, effervescent, more alive on this ordinary afternoon than Mark has felt in days, weeks, months. “You don’t really want to,” he says. Ten is a beautiful thing; of course Mark would want him. “You want me to kiss you because you want to be kissed.” 

“Ok,” Mark doesn’t deny it. 

Ten smiles at him, more tender and caring than he has any obligation to be, and for that, Mark is thankful beyond words. He tilts Mark’s chin up with the pads of his fingers. “Ok. It’s okay. You called me here because you’re lonely.” Ten kisses him, then, just turns Mark’s face to the side slightly and brings their mouths together. He tastes like the lingering wisps of morning mist on the water, of light and smoke. When they part, Ten says, “I’m not going to fuck you.” 

“I don’t want to fuck you,” Mark replies, too innocent-sounding for the request. “I just wanted to kiss you.” 

“Oh Mark,” Ten sighs into his mouth, “you’re a little lost right now, aren’t you dear.” 

“When aren’t I?” They speak between simple, uncomplicated kisses. As Mark said, it isn’t about sex, or romance. It’s reaching out to someone and them reaching back. 

“It wasn’t a question.” 

Mark turns his head up to the ceiling. A giggle bubbles up through his chest, verging on the edge of hysteria. Paris is a beautiful place to come undone. “Let’s eat soon.” 

“I should be insulted that you’re thinking about eating instead of making out with me.” 

“You’re sending mixed signals,” Mark jokes. “First you don’t kiss me and now you don’t wanna stop.” 

“Fair. But your lips taste like watermelon, and you know I hate fruit. We should start drinking soon, too. Pre-game.” 

“We’ve _been_ drinking.” 

“Honey,” Ten gives him a flat look. “We’ve been sipping wine like God-fearing housewives. I’m talking about _drinking_ drinking.” 

Ten stretches out like a cat, full body. Mark stands and snatches the exposed skin of his ankle, pulling him off the couch with a sharp tug. 

“You wanna drink? Let’s drink.” 

  


Wake up in Paris. One more hangover for the books. 

To the left of Mark, half an arm’s reach away, Ten snoozes away with his face pressed into the pillow, the bare curve of his shoulder exposed and so, so lovely. 

To the right is the nightstand, where Mark’s phone rests, only a few inches from the charger but not plugged in. Naturally, his phone is dead, but when it does light up, several unread messages greet him. Two are from Instagram, photos of him and Ten tagged in celebrity gossip accounts—great, more trashy headlines to look forward to. At least—well, at least there are no mothers to disappoint with his antics. Another message is from Lucas. It’s not the first time he’s called this week. 

Mark could call him back. He does the time conversion in his head; Hong Kong is seven hours ahead, and it would be only evening there. He _could_ call, but instead, he stares at the messages in silence, instead. 

“Did we fuck last night?” Ten groans. 

“Man, fuck don’t joke about that. And it would have been morning. We got back at 4am,” Mark answers him. Ten’s body pops and cracks as he stretches under the sheets. 

“Why does my body feel like I got dicked down last night, then?” 

Mark thinks back. He recalls Ten’s sweaty, lithe body against him in the darkness of the rave, neon lights sparking around them; them charging down the street in laughter, limbs flailing, as the sun was threatening the horizon; fumbling with the key and the lock, nearly dropping the damn thing down a drain. He remembers being happy. _Too_ happy. “Dude. I think you fell down a flight of stairs.” 

“Oh. Well, that explains that.” 

“There was molly last night?” 

Ten hums. “There were pretty pills, whatever there were. I think it was molly.” 

There’s nothing very reassuring about that. Too late now, though, not with the flat feeling from the lack of serotonin blanketing Mark’s mind. 

He leaves his phone on the nightstand, messages unreplied to, and settles back down next to Ten, making himself comfortable. With Ten’s body heat, the bed is just barely too warm, but he also feels safe. Cocooned. 

Somewhat like a cat, Ten curls up next to him naturally. 

“What’s got your face looking like that now? More than the molly hangover.” Ten traces the outside of Mark’s lips with the tip of his finger. He didn’t realize he was frowning. He’s a bit embarrassed Ten pointed it out. 

“Nothing,” Mark lies, to which Ten only laughs. _Come on, I know you better than that,_ that laugh says. “Ugh, fine, it’s Lucas. He texted me.” 

“Ooh, Lucas! The cute rich boy! From... Singapore?” 

“Hong Kong.”

“Close enough. Humid and polluted, just like Bangkok.” Ten pillows his head on Mark’s shoulder. “What did he want? Is this a booty-call from the other side of the world?” 

“Dunno. Didn’t look at what they said.”

“And why’s that? Feeling shy all of a sudden?” 

“No, nah, Lucas is nice,” Mark says firmly. “Or Yukhei, that’s his Cantonese name. He’s really sweet, and funny. I like him a lot.” 

“Yu-khei,” Ten teases out. 

“You speak Cantonese?” Mark asks, surprised.

“I know many mysterious things,” Ten says, smug. “Do you like him... too much?” Ten asks delicately. Under the sheets Ten’s hands find his own. 

“That’s not it,” Mark sighs. “Maybe it is. I don’t know. It’s complicated.” 

Ten strokes his thumb over the flesh of Mark’s hand. “Most things are complicated with you, baby.” 

“It’s not that I don’t want to see him, or talk to him. Those things are fun. But...” Mark stalls, “there’s just a lot going on in my head already. Not much room for someone else in there right now.” 

“The agony of being perceived, I see.” 

“I don’t know how you do _multiple_ people.” It’s the emotional intimate intimacy that gets to Mark. Sex is one thing, and one thing he’s good at. Romance is another thing entirely. 

“I’m a slut for attention.”

Mark pinches Ten’s side. “I know you are.” 

“You should text him back,” Ten says on a more serious note. “Maybe it would be good for you.” Ten teases out the maybe, letting Mark know it’s just a suggestion, that Ten isn’t trying to insert himself in Mark’s business _too_ much. 

It _would_ be good for Mark. That’s part of the reason he doesn’t want to do it; the better something is, the worse the fallout when Mark inevitably fucks it up. 

“Let’s get brunch,” Mark says instead. He rolls out of the sheets and drags Ten with him. Mark manages to find somewhat reasonable, normal clothes, but Ten ends up heading down the street to the good brunch spot on the corner in linen pants and a silk robe wrapped tight around his thin waist. It’s a look—it’s Ten, of course it’s a look. 

“Mimosas?” 

“I need it.” 

The bubbles of the champagne pop in Mark’s mouth, a lovely distraction from the way his stomach is doing flips. His need for a crepe is pressing, immediate. In the meantime, he sucks down flutes of mimosa like they’re water. 

“Vitamin D is good for hangovers.” 

“True that,” Ten clinks their glasses together. “To Paris and you, my lovey.” 

Mark scrunches his nose; across the table, Ten is giving him a large, teasing smile, his face pillowed his palm, half-tilted towards the skin. “Gross,” Mark whines. “Love. Friendship. Disgusting.” 

“You love me, you really love me,” Ten sings. 

That Mark does, but instead of saying it out loud, he sticks his tongue out at Ten instead. That’s a little more their style. 

  


Ten isn’t even out of sight when Mark pops the cork to another bottle of wine. He resolves himself off one thing—when he hits the bottom, he’ll make a decision about Mr. Sooman’s deal. The last drops will be the end of the story. 

And after that, he’ll paint.

  


  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Robert Mapplethrope was an American photographer most famous for documenting the New York S&M scene. He was active from the late 1960s/1970s until his death in 1989 from AIDS complications. [This](https://www.artsy.net/article/artsy-editorial-mapplethorpes-photographs-remain-subversive-shock-value) is a good article on him and his work. 
> 
> 2\. William Forsythe is a contemporary experimental American ballet choreographer and visual artist based in Germany. KAI's work is largely inspired by his visual work, specifically [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FpOQeOa6dhI) video. 
> 
> 3\. Edward Weston was an American 20th century photographer who was most focused on shooting in a highly-controlled studio environment. [This](https://www.artnet.com/auctions/artists/edward-weston/six-nudes-of-neil-portfolio-of-6-2) photo of his son Neil shows the contrast between the sensuality of the human form that Mapplethorpe exhibits, and the formalism of Weston's photography. 
> 
> 4\. Jeff Koons is my personal mortal enemy, and because of him, you can buy Louis Vuitton bags with famous Masters works on them. 
> 
> 5\. Keith Haring was an American pop and graffiti artist active in the 1980s. Like Mapplethrope, his identity as an artist is strongly tied to his sexuality and AIDS, and his illustrations are near synonymous with the movement. Yes, you can buy handbags with his art on them. Haring himself was not against commercial art, but IMO his estate has played pretty fast and loose with the [licensing.](https://www.haring.com/kh_foundation/licensing)
> 
> 6\. Jean-Michel Basquiat was an American artist of Haitian and Puerto Rican descent. He is one of the most famous and popular contemporary artists ever, and his story has influenced Mark's. After his death of a heroin overdose in 1988, his work went on to become some of the most expensive in the world (one painting selling for $110.5 million in 2017). Like Haring, he had a friendly relationship with consumerism. But I expect even he would object to the hellscape that is this [Basquiat x Warner Bros UNIQLO collection.](https://www.uniqlo.com/us/en/ut-graphic-tees/jean-michel-basquiat)


	3. Milan, Daybreak (2019, Oil on canvas, 4.5" x 5.5")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know when a writer doesn't update for a while and their only excuse is "life"? Yeah, that's me. All I can say is that after winter break my job smacked me silly, hence the weight. That being said, I am immensely proud of this chapter. Thank you to everyone for your patience and kind words 💚
> 
> Please note that this chapter contains **explicit** content.

_**Portrait of the Artist: Mark Lee** _

**profile by Taeyong Lee for _Vanity Fair_**

  


_In 2019, Lee fled to Europe and to the cities that birthed the Western canon. Whether this was due to personal circumstances—Lee underwent an unfortunately public severance from his family as a teenager—or simply because Lee wanted to increase his worldly experience, who is to say. Lee has never offered up a reason as to why he didn’t step foot in North America for several years, despite the pleas from Toronto, Chicago, and New York for their special son to come home to roost._

_It would be impossible to imagine the trajectory of Lee’s career if he_ hadn’t _gone to Europe, for that is where he met the acquaintance of some of the key figures in his life. There was the fashion designer known by the moniker Ten, with whom Lee graced the illustrious covers of numerous gossip magazines; more significantly to his career, in Europe Lee caught the attention of Taemin Lee (referred from here by his full name to avoid confusion), the storied owner of_ Neo Culture Couture _and guiding light of innovative Contemporary Art in the continent._

_Looking back, Lee says this introduction was the first domino that set off a cascading series of events, both personal and professional, that would shape the brightest and most tumultuous years of Lee’s life._

_“I know people may not believe me,” Lee says, stilted. This particular subject matter is the one he’s most uncomfortable with. “Coming where I come from, my history with my—family—but during parts of 2019 I felt more lost than I ever had. Even after I was emancipated and I wasn’t speaking to my parents, I still held onto the naive thought that they loved me. Then when I got older, and my problems became more complex, I realized I had barely anyone to rely on, and that I definitely didn’t have the means to cope.”_

_“Cope with what?”_

_Lee shrugs in an evasive maneuver that to my eyes looks quite practiced. Likely, it is. “Do you want me to say sex and drugs?”_

_Lee, here, is being purposefully defensive. I’ve had a personal relationship with Lee for years, and despite being invited into his home—and Lee has been a lovely host—it’s as if he cannot help but be combative with reporters. Having seen first hand what was written about Lee and shared widely across social media, it’s understandable._

_Lee sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says. Although Lee can be prickly with his words, he’s quick to apologize, a trait he has said was ingrained in him by his strict religious upbringing. Emancipation doesn’t break everything. “The truth is, I was in love, but I never learned how to say the words.”_

_“Who were you in love with?”_

_Lee smiles ruefully. “You’ve seen the tabloids—you tell me.”_

  


  


  


**Milan, Daybreak (2019, Oil on canvas, 4.5” x 5.5”)**

**_On display at the Museum of Modern Art, New York_ **

  


_“There’s someone I think you should talk to.”_

“You sound like you’re referring me to therapy,” Mark jokes, but then, maybe it’s not so much of a joke at all. He knows he could probably use it, objectively, but he’s never been good at doing things that are in his own best interest. 

He stands in the apartment’s small kitchen, rifling through the cabinets for something to eat this late morning. He’s in Monaco, now, just for a few weeks. As lovely as Paris was, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being stifled there, suffocated under the weight of... everything. So, he took the train south and got an apartment that overlooks the sea, the cost of which could bring his accountant to tears. 

Naturally, there’s hardly any food to be found, because Mark doesn’t cook. The best he can do is use a microwave, but there’s no microwave in the apartment. How _European,_ Mark grumbles to himself. All he finds is a stale box of cereal. It will do. 

In the crook of his neck is his phone, and at the same time on the other end of the line, on the other side of the world, is Lucas. 

_“Well—”_ Lucas hums. The _you said it, not me,_ rests in the air. _“His name’s Baekhyun. He’s an agent.”_

Mark sighs, wrinkles his brow and nose. “You know how I feel about agents.” Listen, Mark’s given the whole agent thing a try, and had cycled through several of them before finally giving it up. Whenever he has a contract to sign, he does the due-diligence of sending it to a lawyer before signing, but that’s about it. People come to _him_ with deals and sales, and that feels a lot easier than searching them out with an agent. Agents just feel... unsavory. He tells everyone it’s just not his thing. 

_“C’mon, don’t you think it’s time you got one? You’re a known name and face in the global art scene, not that same phenom from Vancouver,”_ Lucas argues. 

“Why are you so invested in this?” He says it flippantly, but there’s another question hiding behind those words. 

_Why are you so invested in my career? Why are you so invested in_ me?

_“Mark,”_ Lucas says, much quieter than before.

Mark winces. “Shit, sorry. You’re right, I didn’t mean to be an asshole.” 

_“You are an ass sometimes,”_ Lucas says, and oh, ouch, _“without meaning to be. But that’s part of who you are. You don’t understand us normal people.”_

“That’s not it at all.” 

He doesn’t know why it comes to mind, but it does—on FaceTime a week and three days ago, Lucas standing at his kitchen island with the floor to ceiling windows of his gorgeous Hong Kong apartment in the background. The city in the landscape and beyond that, the ocean. They’d been talking about nothing in particular, and Lucas had been wearing nothing in particular, just a simple cotton button down that surely cost hundreds of dollars. Something about the scene, so warm and light, had made Mark hot under his collar and his fingers itch to close over the clasp of his belt buckle. At the time, he hadn’t said anything, but as soon as the call ended he’d jerked off furiously right where he was with his arm thrown over his eyes and head full of images. 

_“Mark?”_

“Sorry,” he shakes himself. His mind has been elsewhere lately—floating. “Totally zoned out there. What were we talking about? Oh, the agent.” 

_“Will you come see me in Hong Kong?”_ Lucas surprises Mark by asking instead. _“I—want to see you.”_

Something tender blankets itself over Mark’s heart. He settles into the armchair by the balcony with the open box of cereal at his side. He can see the Meditteranean from here; it’s a long way to Hong Kong by sea, but they’re connected, somehow. Would a message in a bottle ever manage to find its way there? 

“I could,” Mark says. “At some point. I can’t leave Europe until after the show in Paris.” 

_“I know,”_ Lucas says, still sounding disappointed. 

“Why don’t you come to me?” Mark offers instead. The cereal is too sweet—the little residue of sugar sticks to his fingers. “We could see Ten in London. You’d like each other.” They would; Lucas is tall and kind and understanding, which means Ten might try to collect him should they ever meet. 

_“I have to work,”_ he sighs. 

“Yeah, your nonspecific but incredibly lucrative career.” Lucas does something with the family business. He’s never been able to successfully explain to Mark exactly what that business _is._ People with money use their money to make more money? Something along those lines. Maybe Mr. Sooman and Lucas’ father know each other. 

For a beat, they sit in silence but for the quiet crunching of cereal. Lucas might be watching the ocean, too. 

“I will come,” Mark murmurs. “So now you can hold me to it.” 

_“You know I will!”_ Lucas says. His smile is audible. Over the red clay roofs and past the glitzy glass condos, Mark watches the tiny, ant-like figures at the marina. Down there, millionaires stroll at their leisure. His work is popular in Europe; it wouldn’t be unreasonable to think that one of those people owns something of his. Even now, it feels like a grift. _“Hey, send me a picture.”_

“What?” 

_“I just want to see you.”_

“Uh. Okay.” Mark ruffles his hair, tries to get it resembling something close to presentable. Ten says all the cool artist kids are dyeing their hair these days, and he likes to needle Mark about going full on orange. Not going to happen. He’s wearing his glasses today, too, because his contacts are still in the bottom of his suitcase. 

_“Awwww,”_ Lucas coos when he gets the pic. _“Your glasses are so cute. This will have to hold me over until you come see me.”_

And because Mark can’t hold it anymore, because they’ve been flirting around the edges of it since they were teenagers, Mark blurts out: “are we together?” 

Lucas is dead silent on the other end of the phone. All of a sudden Mark feels all 8,744 kilometers between them. _“I don’t know,”_ he says at last. _“You tell me.”_

Because he’s too embarrassed for words, Mark laughs. It’s a little ridiculous, that talking about his feelings flusters him to this level. “It’s not that—I like you a lot. You know that. But if you want more, I— I can’t give you that.” 

_“You don’t have to overthink everything in your life, Mark. Especially not this.”_ Mark heaves a sigh of relief, his lungs screaming with the breath he didn’t know he was holding. _“You’re my friend, too. I like spending time with you. I like the cute sounds you make when you’re turned on. But you’re not tied to me.”_

It’s very tempting, but Mark pulls himself back from thinking about all the things Lucas isn’t saying. He could be lying to Mark and hiding his disappointment well. It could be true, but just as easily, Mark could never know it. Hyperfixating but not knowing would be torture. 

“Thanks. I care about you a lot, Lucas.” 

_“I know you do. I care about you too.”_

“I just wanted you to know.”

Lucas laughs. _“This is a bummer of a conversation, huh?”_

“That’s what you get with me,” Mark says with plenty of self deprivation. “I’m glad we could, uh. Talk.” 

_“Does this mean you’ll connect with Baekhyun?”_ Mark pulls away from the phone, tilts his head back, and groans as loudly as possible. 

“ _Seriously?_ Jesus, Mary, and Joseph you’re fucking persistent,” Mark sighs. “Fine. Ok? Send me his number and I’ll talk to Baekhyun.” 

Lucas’ chuckles sound extremely self-satisfied. _“Done and done,”_ he says. _“I’ll see you in Hong Kong. Soon. Ish.”_

“Yeah, I’ll see you. Take care man.” 

When the line is dead for long enough that Mark is sure it’s over, he abandons everything right there in the seat by the window; his phone, the cereal, the tumultuous content of his thoughts. With silent bare feet, and the raw linen of the pants he bought at an expensive French boutique sliding together, he pads out of the sunlit living room and back to the bedroom without pausing. Only when he shuts the door of the large closet does he exhale the breath he’d been holding. 

The closet is dark, the lighting terrible, too raw and blue. The ventilation is also awful, and the fumes from the turpentine squeeze at his temples. But it’s quiet. Here, he feels alone, like he’s hiding his drawings under the covers of his childhood bed again. His easel and paints are already set up in the corner. On the canvas is a half-started painting from yesterday, but that doesn’t matter. 

Mark picks up his brush. To his eyes, his hand is trembling. That doesn’t matter, either. The more weight behind the brush, the better. 

He presses the brush down and thinks of nothing but all the things he could have, should have, but didn’t, say. 

  


-

  


Baekhyun is waiting for him in the hotel lobby. 

Despite the way his stomach was rolling in the private car, Mark had been entranced by the view alongside the highway leading away from the airport. The green Italian countryside that had gradually turned to the stucco and terracotta buildings of Milan. 

He’d spent the very short plane ride chain-drinking glasses of wine. 

The lobby of the hotel Baekhyun arranged for him was entirely bronze and gold—Mark wanted to squint his eyes and look away. It wasn’t the easiest thing to look at directly. 

With his icy-blond hair and blocky sunglasses covering half his face, Baekhyun fit into the setting well. He very much looked the part of a sophisticated, worldly agent in the service of some of the best-selling, most recognized artists in the world. And Mark was his newest project. 

Well. It was all more complicated than that, but the story is nice, and Baekhyun photographs well in his lamb’s wool coats. But whenever Mark thinks of him, he remembers their first phone call and the shocking brightness of Baekhyun’s laugh, his high-pitched cackles and the strain of his breathless voice.

And their first FaceTime, too, Baekhyun in a dark room working late in Tokyo, his hair mused and round glasses perched at the very end of his nose. Not at all the cool guy on Instagram; Baekhyun was a nerd, and a nice one at that. He cared, genuinely. 

Lucas was polite about it, but Mark knew he was holding himself back from saying _I told you so_ when Mark admitted he’d be signing a contract with Baekhyun after only two meetings about it. And Mark is loath to admit it himself, but yeah, Baekhyun has been good for him. Except for times like now, when he calls Mark to Milan to “make appearances.” 

It is not, apparently, enough to just be an artist and you know, make art, these days. Somehow Baekhyun convinced him that he needs to work on his image, too. _That_ is something of an uphill battle. Soon enough, though, Baekhyun will come to his sense and realize the less the world sees of Mark, the better.

When Mark is close enough, Baekhyun wraps him in a quick hug. He’s easy with his affections, and Mark doesn’t try to pretend he doesn’t enjoy it. It still feels foreign to him, a little awkward, but he still likes it. Ten tells him you get better at hugs with practice, as if physical affection were a skill he could hone over time. 

(“Like painting,” Ten said, “you practice painting.” 

“I don’t _practice_ my art,” Mark scowled, “I just _do_ it.” 

Ten has given him an odd look. “Ok, well, practice like the plebs do.”) 

“First time in Italy?” Baekhyun asks, though he likely already knows the answer. He does that, sometimes, just to see what Mark will say. 

“Yeah. I’ve been close but this is technically my first time.” 

“If you thought Paris was an art city,” Baekhyun whistles, “you’ve seen nothing yet.” 

Baekhyun’s phone screen flashes bright with an incoming call. When he looks down to it, he releases a small huff of air and clicks his thumb against the lock button, plunging the screen into darkness again. 

“I think Lee Sooman is upset you’re not picking up his calls.” Baekhyun says Mr. Sooman’s name like it’s supposed to be pronounced, with the syllables and accent Mark has yet to be able to get his mouth to form properly. 

“I have you to pick up his calls, right?” Mark tries to keep light, but there’s anxiety pushing against his lips. Or maybe not anxiety, but guilt. He _has_ been dodging calls, ever since he agreed to the Adidas deal. Now that he has Baekhyun, his agent is the one who hammered out the details, not Mr. Sooman and his army of lawyers and accountants. But that doesn’t excuse Mark not returning his calls—this is a man he owes everything. Mark should be _better_ than the game of hide-and-seek he’s currently playing. 

He’s not, though. Mark is a premiere expert in running away. 

Thankfully, Baekhyun just rolls his eyes, and not in a malicious way. He quickly directs the hotel staff to take Mark’s things up to his room—across the hall from Baekhyun’s own—and with a hand on Mark’s elbow, leads him to the warmly-lit bar and lounge area. 

In this kind of setting, Baekhyun is nothing less than great company. It makes Mark think—hope—that if they weren’t professionally connected, they could have been friends, too. That maybe they could still _be_ friends. 

They talk about nothing in particular. Baekhyun orders a light spritz for the afternoon, Mark something with vermouth. He doesn’t tell Baekhyun he’d already been drinking on the plane.

It feels... comforting that Baekhyun does this. Talks to him like a real person with interests. Mark knows that while they sit here at the bar, Baekhyun won’t bring up any work things, won’t talk business, or money, or timelines for Mark’s latest project.

With a crook of his finger and a blinding smile, Baekhyun summons the bartender and closes out their tab with his fancy credit card, the one that purposefully signals _money._ Mark would complain about being limited to one drink, but with Baekhyun paying, he’s more concerned about seeming too greedy. Rude. 

Plus, it’s early afternoon. That means it’s a bad time to get trashed at the hotel bar, but it also means there’s time for more drinking later. 

“Not that you look _bad,_ per say,” Baekhyun tells him in the elevator, “but I think it would be prudent to visit your room and spruce yourself up a bit.” 

“Wow,” Mark drawls, “thanks. Really uplifting me right now.” 

“Where we’re going, you’ll want to look good, is all.” 

“Oh, wait, you never even mentioned it. Where _are_ we going? You abducting me or something?”

“That sounds like something your friend Ten would do,” Baekhyun hums. “Afraid that’s not my style. And I did tell you—we’re going to meet people. Network.” 

They’re in Mark’s hotel room now; Baekhyun leans against the wall and watches Mark rifle through his suitcase. Baekhyun is probably the kind of person who always unpacks their suitcase and hangs up their nice shirts. Maybe even _irons_ them. 

“Yeah, but that doesn’t answer where we’re actually going. You want to look nice, right? What’s the dress code?” Mark resists the urge to pick nervously at his lip. He doesn’t love being caught off guard, or being too out of place. 

“The pretentious answer would be a Salon,” Baekhyun says, drawing out the last word with a hint of derision attached. “Capital S, like back in the glory days of Picasso and Gretchen Rubin. But plainly speaking it’s an invite-only longue for cultured types.” 

“Salons were French,” Mark says offhandedly. Baekhyun waves his around his face, like he’s swatting off Mark’s obvious remarks. 

“The owner is a wannabe art historian,” Baekhyun says in explanation. “But she’s old, rich, and influential, so no one can say a thing.” 

“She sounds like a dream.” 

“Hopefully she won’t be there. But if she is, don’t freak out if she pinches your cheeks.” 

Mark’s cheeks have been pinched far too many times by old ladies at church for that to bother him anymore. “You think I’d do that? I promise not to.” 

There’s something soft in Baekhyun’s gaze. “No, I bet you’re perfectly lovely around old ladies, batty or not. Take a cat nap and get showered, I’ll come remind you when you have thirty minutes left.” 

Dutifully, Mark goes through the motions of getting ready. He munches on the granola bar he got at the airport to keep his stomach from complaining _too_ much and closes his eyes for all of ten minutes. Just as promised, Baekhyun knocks on his door promptly when they’re thirty minutes out. 

Baekhyun himself is dressed to kill, with his bangs pushed back from his forehead and shoes so pointy they could be used as a deadly weapon. His manager is, undeniably, something of a catch. Mark can admit that, even if Baekhyun is mothering him half the time. 

The place Baekhyun brings him matches the pretentious expectations. It’s Old World and ostentatious, with tassels hanging from the ceilings, and nearly everything upholstered with either velvet or suede. Naturally, it’s also extremely dark inside, and the colored lighting makes the place seem even hazier than it would otherwise. 

The place is set up like an apartment—indeed, it _is_ an apartment—with interconnecting rooms that seem to go deeper and deeper. That makes it difficult for Mark to get any bearings, capture any sense of space. But from the entryway lined with coats he sees a patio with twinkling lights, and people standing around smoking in the night air. In the opposite direction yet more people are gathered around a record player spewing out what else—jazz. The only blessing is that everyone is dressed like it’s the 21st century, and not in some tone-deaf 1920s period cosplay. Or even worse: _Renaissance_ cosplay. 

“This is the weirdest place I’ve ever been, and I’ve been clubbing in Berlin,” Mark says under his breath. Baekhyun makes a laughing noise in his throat, somehow without his face budging an inch. 

“Best behavior, now,” Baekhyun reminds him. His eyes widen quickly when he spots someone. “Just the person I was hoping to see. I need to have a chat with this fellow, about uh, _personal_ matter, but I promise I won’t abandon you.” 

“No, that’s fine, I gotcha. I’m going to uh... wander.” 

Baekhyun goes off to take care of his business, and Mark does exactly what he said he’d do—wander. The Salon, or whatever, gets more fathomless as he goes on. Each room has a slightly different theme going on, and there’s plenty of furniture to longue artfully across. Not that Mark is the kind of person to do that, but it seems to be a skill of many of this place’s patrons. 

Naturally, he finds the bar, and orders something that smells strong enough to burn his nose off. 

It’s not lost on him that there are whispers following him; that’s partly why he wanted the drink in the first place. To help drown out the background noise. 

Yeah yeah yeah, Mark Lee is here. _Heard he’s a party animal. Heard he loses control. I wonder if he’ll do something tonight. He looks like fun. He looks like a mess. Did you see his show? Well, you know what they say about genius... they burn a little too bright if you know what I mean._

If Mark stays at the bar the entire night, Baekhyun will definitely know where to find him. But he feels stupid here, uncomfortable. His back is itching with how many people are glancing in his direction. Heavy glass in hand, he keeps drifting through the Salon. 

One of the rooms is decorated like a library. Beautiful leather books line the shelves, and Mark wonders if they’re real or not. Do people come here to read? Do they curl up in these armchairs once the party is over? 

The main group in this room is an eclectic group, discussing philosophy. Mark hangs in the background just listening, until someone catches a glimpse of him hovering in their periphery. Ducking his head, Mark moves on. 

In the next room, there’s a very obvious center of gravity. This room appears to be decorated like a greenhouse, or a garden, with vines and lights winding their way across the ceilings and walls. Everyone is grouped around a figure in the middle, impossible to miss with a red trench coat draped over a stark white shirt with the buttons half undone. 

Time screeches to a halt. The space between Mark’s ears goes fuzzy. 

Because standing there, in that coat, surrounded by those people, is KAI. 

Ok. Ok ok ok, keep cool. _Keep it cool, Mark Lee, seriously._

He doesn’t know if he makes a noise—he doesn’t _think_ he’s made a noise—but right as Mark is cooling off his subconscious, which has leapt in terror at the very sight of Jongin, the man himself glances over his left shoulder and sees Mark there. Staring at him, like a creepy groupie. 

Wow, nice going Mark, bungled things before you even _met_ the guy. 

But then something weird happens, because instead of Jongin grimacing at him like expected, he smiles at Mark instead. 

His ears are still ringing, so he doesn’t hear it, but because he’s transfixed on Jongin’s lips, he knows for sure that the words that form on Jongin’s lips make up _his_ name. Thankfully, his hearing has returned to him when Jongin repeats himself. “Mark Lee?” One of his eyebrows curls up in a perfect arch. “The man of the hour.” He reaches a hand forward, to pull Mark in closer, into the web of people hanging off Jongin’s honey-lined bait. The ballet training is obvious from the grace of the movement, the way Jongin’s arm unfurls in a smooth wave from his shoulder down to the very tips of his fingers. 

Mark accepts the hand. Naturally, he accepts. 

For a fleeting, lovely moment, Mark feels like a dancer partner, light of his feet and floating through the room. Jongin’s hand rests, so briefly he may be imagining it, on the small of Mark’s back before withdrawing. 

“Darling Mark, nice to see you here in person and not on the cover of a magazine at the deli checkout,” an obnoxious woman to his side laughs. Mark holds himself back from snapping _and you wonder why I never come to these places._

“Eliza,” Jongin frowns. And—oh, right. Jongin has spent even _more_ time on those covers than Mark has. Everyone applauded the way he’s cleaned up his image but... the bruises never quite fade. It certainly shuts Eliza up, and she stutters her way into the background. 

“I was just telling everyone of your exhibit with Taemin in Paris. It’s wonderful,” Jongin says. “But these mongrels hate leaving Italy to see art.” 

“Art capital of the world since ancient times, don’t get cocky,” someone says. 

“Oh wow, damn. Thank you so much, it means a lot. Coming from you.” Just keep talking to him Mark, you can do it. “It’s kind of crazy, I mean, when I met with Taemin _your_ exhibit was up.” 

Jongin’s smile is so genuine it sparks a strange, protective urge in Mark. “What a lovely coincidence. You know, I was going to badger Taemin into telling me more about you, but now I don’t have to.” 

“I—you—what?” He stutters. 

“Well, you’re here now, so I can ask you myself. Isn’t that nice?” 

“I know. I mean—I can’t imagine what you’d want to ask me. I’m not that interesting.” Mark isn’t lying. He really is at a loss. 

Jongin stares at him for a solid five seconds, then suddenly, laughs. “Oh, you’re not joking! I totally thought you were acting all arrogant, but you really are innocent. Aw, that’s adorable.” 

Perhaps Mark would be annoyed by being called _adorable,_ but he’s too flustered to process multiple emotions at once. He hasn’t felt like this in... a while. Not since that first night meeting Lucas, when the future seemed so open and the past so closed. 

“Well,” Mark says, courage spiking along with his adrenaline, “You standing there with your shirt undone is distracting me. I’m off my game.” 

Jongin surprises Mark by putting a hand over the bare skin of his chest. He looks—embarrassed. Shy. “Sorry, is it too much? Am I making you uncomfortable? I have a stylist friend who likes to dress me up, normally I’m a sweater kind of guy.” 

“No, uh.” It seems impossible that a man like Jongin could be so unaware of his own aura. “I’m just. Uh. Trying to flirt with you.” Mark is more than a little shocked, which means his filter is completely down as well. 

“Oh,” Jongin brightens. He slides his fingers across his décolleté. Mark is transfixed by the way his delicate fingers glide across the bone. His mouth feels very, very dry. “Is my collarbone distracting you?” 

_You are the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in my life,_ Mark’s brain screams, _and_ you _want to talk to_ me. _I could not be more distracted._

“I was planning on interrogating your thoughts on deconstructivism in regards to your portrayal of self, but maybe—” 

Baekhyun announces himself by slinging his arm around one of Mark and Jongin’s shoulders each, effectively sticking his face right in between theirs. “Look at you two cuties chatting it up.”

“Hyung!” Jongin greets cheerfully. Oh, they know each other? Of course they do. With how Mark’s life has gone so far, he should have expected it. Art is an insular world—there are only a sparse few degrees of separation between any given person. All this time, Mark’s been closer to Jongin than he could have dreamed. 

“A little birdie told me that two of you were getting cozy,” Baekhyun grins. 

“I—we’re not—” Mark turns scarlet. 

“You know how Eliza is,” Jongin says, looking at-ease. _He_ doesn’t attempt to deny Baekhyun’s assertion. The next part is addressed to Mark, “I should have known you were under Baekhyun’s wing.” 

Mark raises a brow. “You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

Baekhyun guffaws. 

“No, no, under Baekhyun’s wing is a nice place to be.” Jongin’s eyes twinkle. “But I do have a lot of fun things about him to tell you.” 

Mark leans in conspiratorially. “And?” 

“Hello? I’m still here?” Baekhyun whines, playing along with the teasing. The only thing he might be annoyed about is not getting a big enough share of the attention. Jongin jostles his shoulder, and the two of them share a loaded look, though Mark only sees Jongin’s side of it from an odd angle. Whatever happens, it blows over quickly, and the three of them pick right back up with the flow of banter. 

At some point they begin drifting over to the side of the room where plush benches and tiny tables line the wall. No one tries to interrupt them—their little threesome must look quite intimidating. 

Baekhyun chatters enough for the rest of them, creating an easy dynamic. It’s a skill of his, and it’s clear Baekhyun’s presence makes them both feel comfortable. He goades Jongin with a long list of Mark’s accomplishments, mortifying Mark in the process, and promises to tell Mark all of Jongin’s secrets if he spills any of Baekhyun’s own. 

“When Taemin first introduced me to Jongin he was like a little bear cub.” Baekhyun sighs dramatically. “Without his mum, rolling around looking for honey.” 

“That metaphor doesn’t even make sense!” Jongin protests. 

“Maybe not,” Baekhyun grins, and tugs at the softness of Jongin’s cheeks, “but you _are_ a little teddy bear.” Jongin swats at Baekhyun and they exchange a few playful words in Korean. 

“I promise not to believe a word Baekhyun says, ever,” Mark says with a sly grin. 

“Someone call the papers!” Baekhyun bemoans, “Kim Jongin is trying to sabotage my professional relationships!” 

“I’m trying to sabotage your personal relationships, too.” 

More Korean. The only thing Mark understands is Jongin’s tone—he sounds a bit like a kid whining for their older brother to do something for him. Whatever it is, he succeeds, because Baekhyun gets up and heads off with an “I’ll be back” and a wink. 

“I got him to get us more drinks,” Jongin says, satisfied. Ooh, yes, Mark could use another drink right about now; he hadn’t noticed until now that his first one was gone. 

“So, uh, how do you know Baekhyun?” Without Baekhyun here to buoy the conversation, Mark feels lost again. He was doing so well earlier, where did all of that energy disappear to? 

“Mark,” Jongin levels him with an amused look. “Do you think it’s a coincidence all the Koreans in Europe know each other.” 

Fair point. 

The corner of Mark’s lips curl up. “Does that mean I’m part of the club now?” 

“If you want to be,” Jongin says earnestly. “If you want. I’d really like you to be.” Jongin mutters something in Korean. “If this is too much, please tell me to stop.” 

“No!” Mark says, a little too fast for his liking. In his scramble he reaches out and places his hand on Jongin’s shoulder, between where the soft silk of his shirt and the red coat meet. The fabric does little to mask the warmth of Jongin’s skin. “Uh, I mean, it’s cool. It’s okay. I—I like it.” 

“Great.” Jongin ducks his head, but Mark can still see his smile.

In the beat of silence that follows, Mark realizes that his hand is still on Jongin’s shoulder, stagnant there for an awkwardly long period of time, though Jongin hasn’t tried to shrug it off. After a moment, he removes it, which _does_ catch Jongin’s attention. 

He’s about to say something when a figure breaks away from the main crowd of the party and scurries up to him. It’s a young man, slim and tall with round classes. He’s very pretty, and young, probably younger than even Mark. His cheekbones scream _model._

The boy ignores Mark entirely, and that’s fine by him, in favor of showering Jongin with praise and admiration. Jongin frowns, annoyance working its way into the shadows of his face. Mark himself can hardly blame the boy—he can barely keep a coherent string of thoughts together in Jongin’s orbit. 

“I’m sorry,” Jongin interrupts gently. The gushing stops short. “I’m talking to my friend right now.” 

“Oh. Right. Sorry about that, Lee.” Just as quickly as he’d come, the boy rushes off again. Jongin watches him go, frown turning deeper. 

“What?” Mark asks. 

“That kid walks runways sometimes, but he also moonlights with some gossip site. He tips paparazzi off quite a bit.”

“Wow, that’s... shitty.” 

Jongin snorts. “No respect for other people’s privacy. He’ll torpedo his own career soon enough but it’s—sad, in a way. I’m sure they don’t even pay well.” 

“You’d think for a place that’s supposed to be a modern day Salon, it’d be easier to talk to people here,” Mark jokes. Jongin looks beautiful when he’s serious, but Mark would much rather have the blushing, almost shy version of him back. 

Jongin, Mark learns, chews on his lip when he’s thinking. 

“Can I come pick you up tomorrow? At your hotel?” Jongin asks. His eyes aren’t like the photographs of him, with the smoldering, smokey gaze. Instead they’re wide and earnest. Hopeful. He’s also unbearably close, and it makes Mark want to do something stupid. “I can show you around. I can get my chance to interrogate you.” 

“Yeah,” Mark swallows, dry. “I’d—that’d be great.” 

It’s a sign of Mark’s rapidly deteriorating sanity that his first thought upon seeing Jongin’s smile so close up is: _he has pretty teeth._

No one has pretty teeth, Jesus, what is going on with him? 

“Where are you staying?” 

Mark tells him. Jongin hums approvingly. “Hyung treats you well. I lived there for two weeks when I first came to Milan long-term. Is eleven good?” Jongin’s eyes twinkle, “or is that too early for you?” 

He’s being teased, Mark realizes. _Jongin_ is teasing him. 

Fortunately Mark saves himself from saying something truly stupid, like _it’s just more time to spend with you._ Instead, he jerks his head no. “No, it’s good. That sounds good. Perfect.” 

Jongin smiles sweetly at him. His touch is light at first on Mark’s upper arm, but it’s heated, burning right through Mark’s sleeve. 

“I’ll see you then,” he says, and the hand tightens. “Bye, Mark.” 

“Yeah, bye,” Mark breathes out. Jongin slides off the velvet seat and disappears into the crowd. Mark watches him until he blends in completely. He releases a ragged breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

Holy shit. He’s going on a date with KAI tomorrow. 

  


-

  


“As an artist, how do you see yourself?” the delicate metal spoon Jongin swirls around his teacup makes tiny twinkling noises when sterling silver collides with porcelain. The cafe around them is noisy and crowded, packed with people searching for a place to escape the day’s chill. But Mark is narrowed in on this moment, this scene, tucked away in a corner at a small table with Jongin on the other side. 

Jongin had arrived at Mark’s hotel precisely on time, looking supremely chic in an understated yet expensive black cashmere sweater, black jeans that perfectly fit the curve of his muscular legs, and a gray houndstooth wool coat. Mark, whose wardrobe consists almost entirely of flannels and hoodies, had tried his best to pull together something of a fit with jeans with paint splatters on them—genuine—and a red bandana tied through one of the belt loops. 

Like a perfect gentleman, Jongin had opened every door for Mark, pulled out his chair at their chosen cafe, and bought Mark his drink and pastry. 

“A painter,” Mark answers. It’s an easy enough question. He’s always been a painter. 

“Are you always going to be a painter?” 

“In my life? Yes.” Mark stalls. If he says it... he wonders if Jongin will understand it. He should. He’s an artist, just like Mark. “Holding the brush—I’m at home. It feels good, um, _safe,_ to know I have something to come back to.” A different thought occurs to Mark. “Why, do you think it’s boring to _just_ be a painter?” 

“No,” Jongin smiles, “but I think you could do more. There’s always going to be an appetite for paintings, things that can take up wall space in galleries and be stored in massive, climate-controlled warehouses for wealthy investors, but from my perspective, it’s far from allthere is.” 

“You _are_ calling me boring.” 

“I never said boring. Sounds to me like you’re projecting.” 

Jongin is like no one Mark has ever met. At his core, he’s kind. He wears his heart on his sleeve, something obvious enough from the moment they first talked at the party, and Jongin was nervous he’d overstepped with his flirting. But there’s a seriousness to him when he talks about his art, or _any_ art, that is. Well. It’s fucking hot, is what. He’s not shy about challenging Mark, either, not when it comes to this. And he does it in a way that doesn’t make Mark, who bends so naturally towards _flight_ , feel like he’s not being attacked. 

Mark knows many people with ulterior motives. He doesn’t think Jongin is one of them. 

_Does_ Mark think painting is boring? He stares down at the intricate porcelain tea saucer and considers this. What he told Jongin is true—painting is home. He could go anywhere in the world and still paint, still _be a_ painter. There’s comfort in that. Comfort is pretty far from revolutionary. 

“I’m a prodigy painter who sells well,” Mark’s mouth twists into an ugly smile. “I don’t think people want anything different from me.” 

“And do you,” Jongin arches a brow, “want to just be an artist who sells well?” 

And that strikes a little too close to home, now doesn’t it? 

“I don’t care what those trash columnists say about you,” Jongin continues. “You’re a good boy, Mark. A good painter, a good seller, a good business partner. It’s easy being good, isn’t it?” 

Mark Lee. A good kid. Shame about the drugs and the partying, but he’s polite. Makes deals with Adidas to sell sneakers. Works sell well. A good kid that makes people in suits a lot of money. Of course it’s easy being good—he’s been trying, and failing, to be good his whole life. 

“How do you do that?” Mark says. While Mark finds it difficult to maintain eye contact with him for too long, Jongin is locked onto him. “See right through me?” 

Jongin smiles. He reaches his hand across the table and carefully, leaving more than enough time to pull away, tangles their fingers together. The contact makes Mark’s heart rate spike, but he feels calmer from the touch. More grounded. 

“I’m a photographer,” he says. “Seeing is what I do.” 

  


Even after being in Europe for years now, Mark still hasn’t gotten used to the atmosphere of old European streets, always a stark contrast to the shiny glass of Vancouver or the low-lying sprawl of Los Angeles. The streets in Milan are striped; lines of stones are sandwiched by even rows of concrete, mixing the old and the practical. 

“Why did you choose Milan?” Mark asks as they walk the streets. Despite the chill, there are still plenty of people about, loaded with bags from designer stores and trinkets from stalls. 

“I came here for fashion first,” Jongin shrugs, “then stayed. It’s not exactly the contemporary art capital of Europe, but then again, it’s _Europe._ Everything is close to everything.” 

With ease Mark could only dream of, Jongin once again winds their hands together. It’s welcome to keep his hand warm, but of course, for other reasons, too. For a block they walk in silence. 

“Was that too intense?” Jongin asks, voice laced with guilt. “In the cafe? I didn’t mean to interrogate you. It’s hard for me to stop once something grabs my attention. But I know that’s not an excuse for making anyone uncomfortable.” 

“No, you’re good.” He blushes scarlet. Jesus. “I uh—I don’t really talk about my, like, feelings, often.” 

“I’m glad, then,” Jongin breathes out like he’s relieved. “You’re very insightful, but I don’t think you realize it.” 

“I told you, I’m not good at things like that.” 

Jongin swings their hands. “Then you should practice.” 

They arrive at a small park with a tasteful statue and fountain in the middle. They both gravitate towards it naturally, and Jongin climbs the edge to stand on the smooth stone. He pulls Mark up by the hand. 

“The castle is that way,” Jongin points out from their newly elevated view. “The Basilica over there. They’re packed with tourists, but honestly, they are a marvel. You should try and see them.” 

“What?” Mark teases. He doesn’t stop himself from leaning into Jongin’s space. “Trying to get rid of me already?” 

“No,” Jongin says instantly, entirely serious. “Never.” 

He looks at Mark like—like he’s—

They’re standing so close, so much so that their shoes touch. Mark stares down at them—Jongin’s neat leather loafers, Mark’s sneakers—in lieu of his face. He doesn’t think it could handle eye contact right now. The edge of the fountain is narrow; leaning too far in one direction could send them both tumbling into the water. 

“I didn’t know how talented I was until I met Mr. Sooman,” Mark admits. It’s been on his mind since the cafe, stirring in the space behind his lungs as they walked the streets. To anyone else, the confession would sound like the most conceited thing in the world. He remembers his childhood friend, Jeno, who worked so hard all the time. He wonders if that boy went to art school like he wanted to. “I paint myself, right? My inner world. But nothing I paint ever feels like a truly accurate representation. But to me, nothing ever feels good enough. It’s—it’s hard for me to see what other people see.” 

“Mark,” Jongin breathes. There are hands around Mark’s face, cupping his jawline and tilting his gaze up. Jongin’s expression is like looking into the sun, and Mark’s breath is stolen away as if he, too, is in the atmosphere. “You are spectacular.” 

And then he’s kissing him. The warm press of lips against his own. Gentle, but confident. 

Jongin giggles at the way Mark chases after him when he pulls away. Into the soft space between them, he asks, “do you want to come see my studio?” 

Yes, Mark would like that a lot. 

  


-

  


Mark tries to imagine coming here on a normal day, for a normal shoot. He imagines himself buzzing into the building, walking up the concrete stairs alone, and Jongin greeting him at the door with the professionalism of KAI. 

This experience is very far from that. 

The insulation of the top-floor loft is poor, but the radiators along the wall spew out an endless amount of heat. It helps, because otherwise, in the state he’s in, Mark would be shivering. Well. He’s shivering now, but not from the chill. 

It’s the anticipation.

Jongin has a meticulous photoshoot setup process. He lays the background for Mark with a careful attention to detail, and sets up the lighting with even more precision. For Mark, who relies mainly on _feeling_ in his art, it’s a unique experience. 

Mark is in his underwear in Jongin’s studio. Jongin is behind the camera. 

A prayer goes up to the heavens that he, thankfully, chose his nicest pair of boxer briefs for today. 

“Lay down,” Jongin says, voice low. He feels the smooth, unforgiving surface of the concrete against his back. With more reverence than Mark has ever been addressed with, Jongin says, “you look beautiful like this.” 

Mark could joke in return, say something silly to break the tension, but he doesn’t. Instead, he blushes. Down to his navel. Jongin can see all of him, can see his blushing, he realizes. He flushes an even deeper red. 

_Click._

Mark has to cover his eyes with his forearm. “Oh,” he chokes out. The camera clicks again. He’s not sure he can endure this. 

_This_ being a kind of teasing Mark could have never imagined himself. For his body to be exposed to Jongin so, in a way that is both sexual and not all at once. Jongin is interested in the form of his body, sure, because as an artist it would be simply impossible for him to ignore. But there’s something else in his eye that tells Mark he doesn’t look at everyone like this. 

“Will you look at me, Mark?” Jongin commands quietly. He does. God, he does. “Move your leg just like that—yes, perfect. Roll over onto your back for me? Now look back. Just like that. You’re doing so well.” 

Mark cannot help the way he shudders and has to press his face into his arms for a moment's reprieve. He’s thankful to be laying on his stomach, because otherwise, Jongin and the camera would have a perfect view of Mark’s growing hard on. He wonders if Jongin’s photos would show the dark wetness of precome against the cotton. 

Jongin wears a pleased smile, but his eyes are intense. As if he’s getting as much out of this as Mark is. It’s a satisfying thought.

“Will you take the rest off for me?” 

Mark sucks is a ragged breath. “Only if you come do it for me.” 

A slow, lopsided smile works its way across Jongin’s face. “I can do that.” With easy grace, Jongin undoes the buttons of his shirt, letting it drift lazily down to the floor. Next come the pants, which he takes care of with one hand. In his other, he holds a small device. A remote for his camera, Mark realizes. The implications of this trinkle in much slower. 

On his way over to Mark, Jongin grabs a chair. “This is about you, remember? You’re the star.” He sets Mark up as he likes, and then, agonizingly, sinks slowly down between Mark’s knees. 

_Click click click._

“I want you to be able to see how you look right now,” Jongin whispers. “To see as I see you.” He asks a question with his eyes. Mark nods, and with that hands drag his underwear down his thighs and then off, out of frame and out of sight. 

Precome beads at the tip of Mark’s cock. Jongin licks his lips, actually does it, and Mark forces his chin up towards the ceiling. He feels as though he’ll come at this very instant if Jongin looks at him like that again. 

_Click._

“Good boy,” Jongin praises, and Mark actually moans out loud. The noise bounces around the room. 

Jongin swallows him down with the single, fluid motion of someone who’s had a good deal of practice. The tight heat of his mouth, the soft press of his lips, it’s incredible. Mark’s body burns. He jerks his head back down—back down to reality—and comes face-to-face with the camera. In the darkness of the lense, he can see their distorted forms. His body rattles with the toe-curling pleasure of being _watched._

“Keep taking photos,” Mark says. He’s rewarded with a barrage of clicks. He doesn’t try to be pretty for the camera. He tries to focus on nothing else but _this._

Jongin does something sinful with his tongue and Mark arches and gasps into it. Jongin chokes on the unexpected movement, and it instantly becomes one of Mark’s favorite sounds in the world. 

There are things the camera, clicking away, cannot capture. Jongin’s tiny, breathless noises are one of them, as is the trembling of Mark’s chest, the uneven way his breath heaves. Against his cheek, Jongin’s eyes are closed, feathery eyelashes against his cheeks. His lips are swollen. Mark would like to bruise them. 

Jongin’s eyes snap up to his, as if he _knows._ He pulls nearly all the way off, so that he can swirl his tongue achingly slow around Mark’s crown. The muscles of Mark’s body are a finely-tuned bow, ready to snap. 

_Click._

Jongin grins around Mark’s cock when he pushes him back down with a hand clenched in his hair. He’s so close, god he’s so close. This is the best blowjob he’s ever gotten, and even if Jongin weren’t an expert with his tongue, it would still be amazing. Because in this moment, with the camera staring him down, he is so absolutely sure he is _wanted._

Mark grunts, presses his heel into the unforgiving concrete. “Fuck, fuck, I’m so close. Jongin. _Jongin, please.”_

Later, Mark will see the photograph of this moment—his head tilted back towards the heavens, both hands pale and clutching at the back of Jongin’s head. His abdomen is sucked in, shadows playing along the hollow underside of his ribs. One of Jongin’s hands is stretched up, resting on the solid surface of Mark’s sternum. Fingering the bone there, feeling the rapid stutter of Mark’s heart as he comes. 

Later, Jongin kisses the back of his neck as they look through them. “I can’t put them in a show, but they’re fucking gorgeous.” Jongin’s fingers tease Mark’s body. Always light, until a clear signal is given. “Do you want a copy?” 

“Didn’t know you were in the business of high-brow pornography,” Mark jokes. 

“Just for you,” Jongin replies. It’s a heavy three words. 

  


-

  


Wake up in Milan, in the quiet, pure hours of the early morning before daybreak. The bed is just on the wrong side of too warm, the old radiator spewing out more heat than the cool air filtering in from the cracked window can handle. Well. There’s also the other factor—Jongin himself is a heater. So warm and so alive, looking tousled and beautiful with the white comforter draped below his shoulders, better than any master sculpture could have imagined it. 

Sleep, at this point, Mark knows is a lost cause. 

Taking stock of his body, he goes through his sense one by one. It’s still dark, but not like the long stretches of night, but a darkness with the promise of light. There are windows on almost every wall—the sun is just waiting to flood in. No demons are waiting in the shadowy corners here, and Mark is safe, but still he won’t be able to sleep. 

Taste is—unfortunate, to say the least. The inside of his mouth is dry and stale. His taste buds are still chasing the memory of Jongin’s sweetness, so of course nothing is going to live up to that. 

To listen, he closes his eyes. The rhythmic breathing of the body next to him, including the slight wheeze of morning congestion. Maybe Jongin is not so perfect after all—maybe he has allergies. Beyond the window, Mark thinks Milan is quiet. There will be delivery truck drivers, honest workmen, and dishonest hooligans trolling the streets, but above them in the studio, Mark can’t hear them. All that’s left is the drone of the building’s tin innards. 

The sheets are smooth against his bare skin. Beads of sweet pool between his toes. 

He wants to reach out, to follow the crease of Jongin’s back where he’s turned away from him down and down, but something stops him from doing so. Despite having taken stock of all his senses, Mark still feels outside of himself. His body guides him out of the bed, feet recoiling when they hit the cold concrete. But there’s really only ever been one thing that makes Mark feel tethered. 

He’s sure Jongin won’t mind if he borrows some supplies. 

Jongin may not consider himself a painter, but the materials he has are more than enough for Mark’s purposes. Balancing the palette, easel, paint, and jars of turpentine in his arms is a precarious balance—he uses his mouth to hold the brushes—but Mark manages to make it up the spiral staircase and shoulder open the roof-access door while making limited noise. 

He casts a lingering look at Kai in the bed, still lost to sleep. That cruel part of himself wonders if he brings people back here often, and if he’s used to people shuffling around in the morning like this. 

Shhh. Relax. The morning is no time to be thinking about things like that. God, Mark could use a drink. 

Instead, he makes himself a comfortable place to sit on the roof. Well, comfortable _enough_. 

Whenever Mark has a good thing, he can’t help but want to destroy it. His own happiness is a pearl white magnolia flower held between his hands, and he can never resist the urge to crush the blossom between his fingers and watch the petals float down. 

He could be on a train out of Milan in two hours. He paints instead. 

The city is beautiful, and Mark could likely spend the rest of his life detailing this one scene. But detail isn’t what Mark is going for. The cityscape is a vehicle for the emotions stirring within him, and the only way they can escape without causing damage is through the tip of Mark’s brush. _That’s_ what he paints. 

Even without something like music to guide him, Mark falls into a steady trance. Just the average noises of a quiet city morning are enough. 

He doesn’t notice another person until they’re right on top of him. 

“Jesus, fuck!” Mark nearly jumps out of his skin. 

“Sorry, oh shit, sorry!” Jongin rushes to say. He laughs at himself. “I was trying to be suave. I had a whole line prepared.”

“Say it anyway.” Mark wants to hear it. 

“I was wondering if a thief broke in during the night.” Impossibly, Jongin is even more beautiful now, wearing nothing but a loose pair of linen pants and the morning light, barefooted on the roof. Gently, he folds himself down behind Mark, so that his knees cradle either side, and his chest is steady against Mark’s back. “I was worried someone stole my paints and my boy.” 

His words make something hot stir in Mark’s chest. With Jongin all around him, the only way for him to shy away in embarrassment is to tuck his chin down and examine his toes instead of the skyline. They’ve taken on a slight blue tint from the cold. 

“You make even cheesy things sound sincere,” Mark mumbles. That thought should have stayed in his head. 

“That’s because I’m honest all the time,” Jongin hums. He tucks his chin over Mark’s shoulder, studying Mark’s painting. “Ah, you’re so cute, Mark. You didn’t have time to do an underpainting, did you? The study of light looks so luminous. Are you going to finish? Don’t let me stop you.” 

“Maybe it’s meant to be unfinished.” Mark has always thought that there’s a certain kind of beauty in leaving the white space as they are—unfilled, with the promise of more. 

Jongin leaves soft kisses on the side of his neck. “Infinite possibilities until you decide on one. Schrodinger's painting. What would you paint if you could put anything there?” 

_You,_ Mark wants to say. _God, you, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen._

Instead, Mark lifts his brush and presses it to the canvas. For once, his thoughts are quiet. He doesn’t think of anything, just paints and lets the brush go where it goes, filling in the spaces left with the atmosphere of the morning. With Mark’s arms out of the way, Jongin curls around Mark’s chest tighter, his hands resting against the flat plane of Mark’s chest. He must be able to feel the way his heart is hammering against his ribs. 

They barely speak. One of the only things Jongin says is, “you’re serious when you work. Where’s that wide-eyed kid now, hm?” 

“Sorry,” Mark says, on reflex. “I dunno. I get like this.” 

“Don’t apologize,” Jongin says soothingly, rubbing circles into Mark’s chest. “You’re hot when you work. I like it.” 

By the time Mark feels like he’s finished, the sun has risen proper, its warmth pushing away the lingering chill from night. It’s a small canvas, done fast and loose and not at all Mark’s usual style, but he finds himself liking it despite that. 

“You can let it dry here,” Jongin whispers. His breath ghosts across the shell of Mark’s ear, hot and wet. With a bit of a laugh, he continues, “then you’ll be forced to come back.” 

_You want to see me again._ Mark shudders. It’s not unpleasant. 

“I’d make you coffee but—I’m honestly pretty shit at it.” 

Mark laughs, a little too loud for the time, and arches his back against Jongin. His bones groan and pop, but this way, he can rest the back of his head on Jongin’s shoulder. He smiles and doesn’t think about what the shape looks like on his face. “There’s a cafe on the corner.” 

“There’s a cafe on every corner.” 

“God bless Europe.” 

“I’m afraid we have to put clothes on to go.” 

Mark groans. _That_ sounds very unpleasant. Maybe the coffee isn’t worth it, if that’s the case. He wouldn’t mind retreating back downstairs, setting up his painting by the window, and curling up in the bed again with Jongin. 

“I’ll go, you stay,” Jongin offers. Low and directly into Mark’s ear, he says, “I want you waiting in my bed when I get back.” 

Alternatively, that works. “Ok,” Mark agrees before he has time to over-analyze things. 

Like the gentleman he’s shown himself to be, Jongin lays Mark down in his bed before swinging his denim jacket around his shoulders. From the doorway, he casts Mark a playful grin before slipping out. And when he’s alone, Mark tips his head back, comfortable with the knowledge that someone is coming back for him. 

  


-

  


Wake up in Los Angeles after a paltry two hours of sleep. Ugh. 

_“Happy launch day,”_ Baekhyun sings, obnoxiously chipper for so early in the morning. Why, exactly, does Mark need to be awake for this? 

He poses that very same question to Baekhyun; he can practically hear the eye roll from the other side of the phone. _“You’re launching a major collaboration with a brand. Your first one, I might add. The pre-order numbers were impressive, but we want to track how the first day sales go. On top of that, there is a launch party today.”_

“Yeah, but isn’t that at night?” 

_“No, in the afternoon. It’s a pool party.”_

Oh, right. A pool party. For sneakers. None of it makes sense, but then again, he’s in LA, and nothing in this city ever does. 

It’s been a long time since Mark has seen this side of the Pacific Ocean. 

None of this really explains why Mark needs to be awake at 8am, especially not after a long flight. Baekhyun has it easy, because he’s in Germany at the Adidas office, where it’s already afternoon. 

Neither of them will admit the _real_ reason Baekhyun is calling so early. It’s to make sure Mark hasn’t managed to find himself a home on the floor of an LA drug dealer’s mansion up in the Hills, or in a ditch. Mark can neither confirm or deny that he _was_ swallowing down some pills last night, chasing the bitterness with something fun and bubbly. 

Despite all that, he’s not hungover. He still feels like shit, but this is a different kind of misery. 

If there are headlines and Instagram videos spreading, Baekhyun has already seen them. Last week, he cautiously broached the topic of hiring a PR person, someone to look after his reputation, though Mark had brushed him off, then. Knowing Baekhyun, he’ll only become more determined and blunt as time goes on, which honestly suits Mark fine. He’d rather people tell him he’s a mess to his face. Not that he doesn’t already know. 

“I’m awake, I’m getting up, getting into the shower.” Mark heaves a sigh. He rolls out of bed and onto his knees, but the world doesn’t spin, which is an optimistic sign. He’s also in his own hotel room. Even better. 

_“Eat something, too,”_ Baekhyun hums. 

“I’ll order something disgustingly healthy from one of these LA places, even better,” Mark promises, which pleases his manager. Baekhyun would be the type of person to think an all-fruit diet is a good idea, Mark thinks idly. 

Baekhyun reminds him of the plan for the day, the timetable, if Mark wants someone to come over and style him for the launch (no, Mark doesn’t). There’s a beat of silence when he finishes, which is both of their cues to say goodbye and hang up. But instead, Mark blurts out—

“Sorry.” 

_“What?”_ Baekhyun is, for once, too surprised to speak. 

“You’re not my—mom—” Jesus, Mary and Joseph that hurts to say. LA man, Mark should never have agreed to have the launch here. “You don’t have to look after me like this. It’s not your job. When you signed up to manage the hottest thing in the art market, you probably didn’t expect this shit show.” 

With all the aching tenderness in the world, Baekhyun says, _“Mark. You’re not a burden to me, you know that, right?”_

Mark _isn’t_ sure he knows that. And even if Baekhyun says it, he isn’t sure he believes it. 

“Either way, I’m sorry.” 

_“Say thank you, next time,”_ Baekhyun says. _“Instead of sorry. You should try apologizing less.”_

“I’ll try,” Mark says, and maybe he actually will. 

In the shower, he doodles the cartoons he made for Adidas on the glass with his finger and imagines their world as a place that is very, very bright. 

  


Mark is drunk. Whoops. Sorry, Baekhyun. Sorry, sorry, sorry. 

Mark is drunk and he might be something more, too, the aftertaste of something bitter and medicinal on his tongue but thrums insistently through his veins. 

Today he is the life of the party. It’s his party to begin with, when it comes down to it. Without him and his doodles, none of these people would be here. Who are these people, actually? All of them definitely did not work on the launch, which means they’re here to be seen, and to be seen around Mark. 

There’s that line Mark wrote— _What is self?_ —plastered over everything. On t-shirts, on the shoes, on banners made just for this party. It’s all over Instagram, too, and apparently people on Twitter are already complaining about the stock. Earlier, Baekhyun sent him EBay markups for nearly twice the original price. 

Oh, right. Baekhyun. Fuck. 

Everything is fuzzy for one, two, three—

Yes, he remembers now. He definitely took something. A girl in a baby pink bikini gave it to him with a secretly, sly smile. She’d been pretty, and had probably been hoping she was his type, but she wasn’t. Obviously. He’s trying to be nice, but he just doesn’t give a shit. 

It’s afternoon, and the sun is too hot for him to feel comfortable in his skin. The spot on the back of his neck itches. His mind is a fog, like the kind that perpetually sits over LA during fire season. 

People talk to him. He smiles. People congratulate him. He says thank you. People hand him tropical-colored drinks, beers, shots of clear liquid. He takes them graciously. 

Mark has made everyone a lot of money or otherwise given them _clout,_ which makes them all very happy and amenable. Somewhere along the road this party has become Mark’s personal playground. Like a lollipop left unattended, people are attracted to him and stick. The people around him laugh and chat about vapid things and give each other snide remarks on the quality of their alleged plastic surgery. They fight and are back to friends in moments. 

They give the DJ their wildest song requests. They stir up more drinks, break out the little baggies of pixie dust, and mix together in the pool. Mark dances. There are many pretty boys to look at, who are eager to have Mark’s hands on their bodies. It’s not bad but it’s not good, just like everything now. It’s all too _too_ much, he’s up and he’s down, his body is being stretched in too many directions at once. 

Someone is too close to him. Everyone is too close to him. The slide of a finger against his skin feels like scalpel, his body being split open with a featherlight stroke. 

“Need to... needa get outta here,” Mark mumbles. With strength his muscles didn’t know they had, he hoists himself out of the pool and stumbles towards the cool, air conditioned exterior. He thinks someone tries to follow him. “Fuck you,” he spits. To no one. To everyone. 

By the grace of God and a minor miracle, Mark manages to find the bathroom without incident. It’s once he gets there that the first pebble gives and the avalanche downhill begins. 

The content of his stomach come up abruptly. It curdles in pain and the blood in his head pounds, blinding. It’s a burden to be here. It’s a burden to exist. His throat aches. Everything in his body does. 

All of sudden, he wants to go home very, very badly. 

Mark rouses himself the best he can, doesn’t bother looking into the mirror. He’s not wearing any shirt, and it’s not within sight. Drunk footsteps lead him away. He needs to find his phone, and his wallet with the little hotel room key and the doodle Jongin drew him. Then he’ll be able to make it back to the hotel. 

His legs, lead and heavy, back outside, not realizing how blinding the sun is until he’s confronted with it. 

_Vancouver was never this bright._ And that’s the thought that has his two feet crossing carelessly, momentum unyielding, and sends his body tumbling face-first into the pool while his mind is far, far away. 

  


  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Gertrude Stein was a famous expat based in Paris in the 1920s. She knew all of your faves—Hemingway, Picasso, Fitzgerald, the likes. She was an incredibly interesting, accomplished, and intelligent woman. Linked is her [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gertrude_Stein)article.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can come chat with me on my socials. 
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/themunchking1) | [CC](https://curiouscat.me/themunchking)


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